


The Locked Room

by Silbrith



Series: Caffrey Conversation [20]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - Fandom, Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, White Collar
Genre: Gen, Mystery, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:57:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 43,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8735758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silbrith/pseuds/Silbrith
Summary: September 1975. A sinister cult operating in Arkham targets Neal and Peter, and Elizabeth makes a startling discovery about Neal. White Collar characters include: Neal, Peter, Elizabeth, Mozzie, Diana, Jones, June, and Sara. Arkham Files story #2, where Caffrey Conversation AU characters are fused into the world of the Cthulhu Mythos and science fiction.





	1. The Nautical Shop

_Notes: This story belongs to the Arkham Files series within the Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen. The first part of this chapter includes a brief recap for new readers._ _Please refer to notes at the end of the chapter for more background information._

* * *

 

**Sharkey's Bar, The Waterfront, Arkham. Wednesday, September 24, 1975.**

He leaned against the old brick wall outside the bar and watched the throng pour into Sharkey's. In the fading twilight, the neon bar sign was a beacon to dockworkers and fishermen returning from the day at sea. Easy pickings for future recruits. A heavy fog had rolled in. The air smelled of fish and boat oil—salty and acrid. A tugboat horn blared faintly.

Chad glanced at his watch. He'd been waiting for a half-hour. This was becoming a habit. He shifted his weight and reached into his pocket for another cigarette.

He was on the point of giving up and going inside when a figure in an old pea jacket approached. The damp air made Keller's hair on his forehead look slick with oil. "What took you so long?" Chad grumbled.

"Not your concern, acolyte." Keller's voice rasped like a rusty hinge. "I'm here now, ain't I? All you need to know is it's on."

"When?"

"Two days from now, on Friday. You got a believer ready for the anointing?"

"Rusty volunteered."

Keller nodded. "He'll do. Tell him the ceremony will take place tomorrow evening at seven o'clock."

Chad took a drag on his cigarette. Typical. Keller never supplied more than the bare essentials. Hadn't he already proven his loyalty? He'd brought him more than enough recruits over the past month.

"What's eating you?" Keller's tone sharpened. "Something going on I don't know about?"

"The others I understood, but what's so special about this device? I thought we were supposed to spread chaos and terror. How's stealing some worthless brass contraption gonna accomplish that? Hell, I didn't even know what an armillary sphere was."

He snorted. "You think I did? I had to go to a library. Do you realize how long it's been since I opened a book?" He stopped short, a chuckle erupting. "Well, excluding _the_ book, of course. You remember that job two weeks ago?"

"At Whateley Rare Books? How could I forget? That nearly turned into a disaster."

"But it didn't. We got what we needed, and we were rewarded plenty for it."

Chad nodded. He could still taste the moon-tree wine on his breath.

"Now we hit the Nautical Shop. It's the will of Azathoth. If he wants it, that's good enough for me, and it should be for you."

"It is," he agreed hastily. "I didn't intend to question—"

"I didn't think so. You know better than that."

"The recruiting's gone well. I have several novitiates lined up."

"Good. We'll hold an initiation next Wednesday."

"Same place?"

He nodded. "The house on Birch Street. Nine o'clock."

**Neal's loft. Thursday evening.**

Beer for Peter in the fridge? Check. Corkscrew for Mozzie? Check.

Neal surveyed the preparations on the counter. The plates were out. Artichoke dip made. He ripped open a bag of potato chips and scattered them on the platter. It had been a long time since he'd had anyone over for dinner, but tonight he felt like celebrating.

It had been two weeks since that fateful day when he decided to reach out to Peter, hoping a man he'd never met could shed light on a starfish he'd seen in his dreams. Although since then the mystery concerning the soapstone carving had only deepened, Neal felt more optimistic than he had in a long time. No longer a prisoner to dreams which made him wonder if he were going mad, he was working with colleagues to unravel the mystery together.

Neal and Peter met frequently to discuss the progress of their research. Mozzie appeared determined to make up for his six-month long absence in India by calling him daily. Mozzie's own class schedule was light. He taught a couple of advanced seminars for grad students but spent the bulk of his time working on a paper on cosmology which he'd present at the next string theory conference.

Peter's focus was on the artifact he'd discovered in an ancient Egyptian tomb in Abydos which was so similar to the one in Neal's dreams. They'd determined that the incised markings on the starfish were an unknown language, hinting of a civilization which predated the tomb where it was found. Peter also suspected the shape was significant. He'd found starfish on potsherds at some of the earliest archaeological sites on earth. Was there a connection?

Cyrus Dexter, head of the chemistry department at Miskatonic University, discovered that the soapstone contained copious amounts of a previously unknown element which they'd dubbed algolnium. Cyrus had written up his findings and they were awaiting a decision from the ruling body on its acceptance. Why Neal was the only person who showed any sensitivity to it remained unknown.

Nor had they been able to explain why since Neal's initial exposure to the artifact, he'd experienced visions of a murder, seen jackal-headed ghasts on the streets of Arkham and unknown winged creatures flying through the night. Neal had visited realms which couldn't exist on earth. Were they visions, hallucinations, or some unknown method of travel to a different universe as Mozzie espoused?

It was only natural that Mozzie, as one of the world's foremost cosmologists, would postulate wormholes into parallel worlds, but it was not a view shared by anyone else. Neal knew Peter's wife Elizabeth was much more concerned he was suffering from attacks of schizophrenia. 

Peter reserved his opinion to himself, but he urged Neal to focus on the hard evidence and leave speculation for later. At his request, Neal had prepared a series of detailed drawings of his visions. Documentation of hallucinations or visions of parallel universes? Whatever they were, he'd completed them earlier in the week. Tonight was to be the grand unveiling.

"You're in a good mood. I haven't heard you sing in quite a while."

Neal spun around to see his landlady, June Parker, standing at the doorway, holding a pie in her hands. He hadn't realized he'd been singing 'Let It Be' so loud.

"You're reminding me we haven't sung any duets in a long time," she added with a smile. "We should remedy that at the first opportunity." She handed him the pie. "Here's the dessert I promised."

Neal accepted it gratefully. June had offered to make one of her signature Bourbon pecan pies. Peter was in for a treat. "I'm sorry Elizabeth had to work tonight. Are you sure you can't stay for dinner?"

"Thanks, but the students insisted I join them." June was acting as a coach for a student production of _West Side Story_. Since the rehearsals took place at night, she was out most evenings. "You're welcome to use the dining room. You'll have much more space."

"We'll be fine here. Peter's not seen the loft, and there will only be three of us. Cyrus couldn't make it either."

"Is that pie I smell?" Peter sniffed the air as he walked in. "I could catch the whiff of Bourbon a floor below." While he and June exchanged greetings, Neal could hear Mozzie downstairs talking to the housekeeper.

Peter had offered to supply the main course. When June saw the size of the sandwiches in his bag, she commented, "You may need to take your dessert home to have with Elizabeth. I doubt you'll have room after eating those."

"How many meatball grinders did you bring?" Neal asked.

Peter smiled as he placed the wrapped loafs on the kitchen counter. "You'll like these so much, you'll wish I'd bought more. The Italian deli on Trinity Avenue makes hands down the best sandwiches anywhere." He glanced around the loft. "You've got a cozy setup." The furniture was old-fashioned but comfortable. The large skylight over the sleeping alcove was one of the best features. Neal could lie in bed and gaze up at the stars.

Peter spotted his drawings on the easel in a corner of the room and walked over to take a closer look.

"No sneak peeks," Mozzie chided as he entered the loft. "We agreed to wait till after dinner." He placed two bottles of Barbera wine on the counter. "To remove ourselves from temptation, we should eat outside. This Indian summer weather can't last. Let's make the most of it."

The glass doors in Neal's loft opened onto a large terrace which occupied the remainder of the roof. June had furnished it with loungers and plants, as well as a wrought-iron table and chairs for dining.

"What a view!" Peter exclaimed when he stepped outside. The familiar buildings of the Miskatonic University campus graced the hills to the north. Derleth Hall where Mozzie had his office had the highest elevation. The observatory on top of the building was clearly visible. Over on the western horizon loomed the steeple of St. Jude's Church on Prospect Hill, a constant reminder of Neal's ill-fated visit to the church.

"When June's husband Byron was alive, they held parties on the terrace," Neal said. "They used to have informal jazz sessions, dance, and play poker. That was before I lived here."

Mozzie sat down at the table and helped himself to a grinder. "My friendship with June and Byron goes back for over fifteen years. I first met them at Cranwell's Wine Shop and we cemented our friendship over poker."

"Mozzie was the one who introduced me to June," Neal said, raising his glass to him.

"When Neal entered Miskatonic University, he was too young to be admitted into a dorm and June offered him the use of the loft. Byron had just passed away and she was rattling around in this big house by herself."

"The friendship between the two of you goes back a long way, I gather." Peter said, reaching for the coleslaw.

"I met Mozzie at an astronomy summer camp held by the university when I was twelve. He was one of the camp instructors."

"Neal won the spot at camp for his entry at the science fair. It was on the effects of light pollution on viewing conditions. I found his research a valuable resource when I spearheaded the campaign to establish a light pollution ordinance for Arkham."

Neal smiled at his friend. His words took him back to when Neal first met him. As a kid he was usually intimidated around adults, but not Mozzie.

"Neal's home life—"

"That's in the past, Mozz," Neal interjected. "No need to dredge it up now."

"You have to grant that it wasn't what it should be," he countered, raising a brow, and turned to Peter. "It didn't take me long to figure that out, and I encouraged him to hang out with me on weekends. Since my research often requires long absences, I introduced him to June so he could have a safe place to go to"—Mozzie paused and tilted his head—"Is that your phone ringing?"

Neal had already risen. "Someone needs to invent answer machines for homes. I'll try to keep it short," and went inside.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter took advantage of Neal's absence to consult with Mozzie, hoping he could shed light on a question El had raised.

She'd run tests on Neal for the past couple of weeks. As a neurologist, she was concerned about the effect the soapstone artifact produced on him. Although he no longer became ill, he continued to be able to sense its presence. The probable culprit was a heightened sensitivity to the algolnium contained within the soapstone.

El wondered if there was a connection to the bout of amnesia Neal suffered as a child. How does an eight-year-old kid appear on the streets of Arkham with no knowledge of his life before that moment? El had discovered the tell-tale signs of broken ribs on his x-rays, but Neal refused to discuss them. Peter hoped Mozzie would be more forthcoming.

"Neal told me he'd been raised in a foster home. From what you said, I gather there were problems?"

He nodded. "Apparently, the adults meant well but they were overextended. They had six kids living with them. Neal was the youngest. Some of the others seemed intent on making his life miserable. One boy who was three years older than Neal—I called him _Bad News Chad_ —was the ringleader and incited the others. Neal doesn't like talking about it, but from the number of bruises he had, I suspected he was being used as a punching bag. Several times I wanted to file a report with Child Protective Services, but Neal pleaded with me not to get involved. I think he was worried the little monsters would take their retaliation out on him."

That tallied with what El feared had been the case. "So you spoke to June," he prompted.

"Exactly. I introduced him to June and Byron in the fall after astronomy camp. Neal told me he never felt like the adults in his foster home were his parents. June helped to partially fill that role. He used to come here after school, in the evenings—whenever he needed to escape and I was away." Mozzie's words trailed off as Neal came back out on the patio.

"That was a colleague on the West Coast who's been studying Chinese oracle bones. He had an interesting perspective on the starfish script. As yet I haven't been able to determine if a mark refers to a letter, word, or it could be code for an entire idea." He brushed his hair back with one hand and muttered, "This could take decades."

Detective Diana Briscoe had provided Neal and Peter with photos of the starfish they'd found at the crime scenes. They were remarkable similar to the artifact he'd found in Egypt with one notable exception. The objects had all mysteriously vanished from the evidence rooms within twenty-four hours of being seized. The police were counting on Neal being able to translate the language, but their demands might be unrealistic. It had taken over twenty years for Champollion to unlock the meaning of Egyptian hieroglyphs after the discovery of the Rosetta Stone provided the key. Neal had nothing similar to guide his efforts.

After dinner, they collected their dishes and returned to the interior of the loft. Neal put the kettle on and ground beans for coffee while Mozzie rinsed the plates. Peter's offer to help was rebuffed, and honestly, Neal's kitchenette was too small for three people.

Peter wandered over to Neal's bookcase. It was filled with an assortment of books on linguistics, art, and history. Many of them were in foreign languages. A framed photograph was on one shelf. Peter glanced at it—a young woman sitting under a tree in the quad, smiling into the camera. Neal hadn't mentioned a girlfriend. Peter took a closer look and was surprised to recognize her. "I didn't realize you knew Kate Micheaux."

Neal hesitated a moment before answering. "She was my fiancée," and busied himself with the coffee press.

Peter regretted bringing up what must be a painful topic. "I'm so sorry. I was her advisor."

"I know. Kate spoke highly of you. That's one of the reasons I decided to seek you out."

"Should we have invited Lavinia?" Mozzie asked, interrupting. If he'd wanted to distract Neal from what must have been a painful topic, he couldn't have made a better choice. Lavinia Armitage, the head librarian, was a woman who had more mysteries swirling around her than Neal. "You've told her about your visions. She was the one who insisted you wear an amulet. She needs to see the drawings, too."

Neal, flummoxed, stared at his friend. "Lavinia in the loft? You can't be serious. She'd probably make me drink emerald wine like last time. Besides, she seems to know everything that goes on without being present. The coffee will be ready in a few minutes. While it steeps, let's go ahead and start."

Neal moved the easel in front of his small dining table and Mozzie and Peter take their seats. He'd used colored pencils for his drawings which had the precision of architectural renderings. Neal's style reminded Peter of the technique his brother Tom had used.

"This first series is of my original dream of Abydos," Neal said. "Since I had the same dream for so many months, they show more detail than the others."

Peter recognized the wadi which cut a canyon through steeps cliffs. To Peter's knowledge, Abydos was the only location in Egypt possessing a similar formation. At the foot of the cliffs Neal had drawn a circular stage with a granite altar surrounded by five tall sandstone columns. The columns were in the style of the Old Kingdom. The shafts had been carved from monolithic blocks and were topped with lotus capitals. The shafts themselves were unadorned. Although Peter was familiar with the area in front of the cliffs from having led several excavations there, he was unfamiliar with anything resembling the stage Neal had depicted.

One of the drawings showed a close-up of the altar. Peter stood up to examine it more closely. The massive block of granite was without any carvings. In the exact center was the starfish which Neal had referenced the day they met.

Neal replaced the drawing with the one underneath it. It depicted a stone staircase descending from the flagstone courtyard. The stairs were next to one of the massive columns. "I found the staircase when I was seeking shelter from a sandstorm. In my dreams, the sequence is always the same. I descend the steps to a narrow landing where the stairs make a ninety-degree turn. When I round the corner I see below what looks like a turbulent ocean filled with vague shapes of bioluminescent creatures. That's what I attempted to capture in this next series."

Neal overlapped the next three images and then stepped back. The nightmarish visions of a hellish world were horrific and at the same time strangely beautiful. Peter forced himself to focus on the creatures. The only images that came close to capturing them were the illustrations in the _Necronomicon_.

Mozzie spoke for them both when he said, "And that's what you were seeing in your initial dreams? It's understandable that you felt you were losing your grasp on reality."

Neal acknowledged the truth of his remarks with a shrug. "The next drawing is of that curiously shaped ruby crystal I saw at St. Jude's Church."

"The shining polyhedron  . . . " Mozzie mused. "So this is what drew you into the wormhole."

"We don't know it was a wormhole," Peter protested. "It could have been a vision."

"Or a hallucination," Neal said under his breath.

Peter flashed him a stern look. "Remember, we're not going there. Any discussion of the nature of the visions has to wait until we have concrete evidence. You haven't seen any more ghasts or winged creatures flying through the night, have you?"

"No," he said, easing into a half-smile. "And I haven't experienced any other dreams or visions." He replaced the drawing with frigid plateau sheathed in ice. "This last group is of Leng where I encountered the monastery of ice and the priest with the yellow silk mask."

As Peter looked at the bleak images, he'd expected ice and desolation, but not . . . He turned to Neal. "The architecture of what you call a monastery is remarkably similar to early Egyptian mastabas."

"Explain yourself," Mozzie demanded. "I'm unfamiliar with the term."

"Mastabas were ancient tombs in predynastic and early dynastic Egypt. I've excavated several at Abydos." Peter pointed to the hallway Neal had drawn. "The proportions, the slightly inclined sides—it's as if a mastaba were recreated in ice."

"And that's not the only resemblance to ancient Egypt," Neal added, pulling out another drawing. "In the cell where I found the priest, the walls were covered with writing. It reminded me of Pyramid Texts. The writing appeared to be similar to what is found on the starfish but I could only give a general impression in my drawing."

Mozzie turned to Peter. "You're the expert. What were Pyramid Texts used for?"

Peter picked up the drawing to study it. "They were spells designed to allow the pharaoh to ascend to the afterlife. The trip could be made in a number of ways—ramps, stairs, or a ladder, for instance. Flying was the most popular means. The texts could also be used to call the gods for help."

As Mozzie listened, he nodded thoughtfully. "In other words the texts were used to create a wormhole to travel into another universe. Those Egyptians displayed a level of understanding of our universe more profound than many of our contemporary so-called authorities."

"That's not what I said at all," Peter said adamantly.

"You say tom-ay-to, I say to-mah-to, it's the same thing. You must learn to expand your mind."

Peter knew better than to try to reason with Mozzie. The man was obsessed with wormholes. Instead, he turned to the image of the priest himself. He was as Neal had described the night he'd entered the boarded-up church and traveled through the crystal to the Plateau of Leng. The figure was clothed in black with a yellow hood covering his head. The robe was covered in vermilion calligraphy which resembled the language on the soapstones. Neal said the priest spoke to him, claiming that he served the ruler of time and space, a being who sat on a black throne. The author of the _Necronomicon_ , Abdul Alhazred, identified that ruler as Azathoth. He called him creator of all others—the one who dwelt in the center of the universe in a region of chaos. But who was the priest? Although a few texts mentioned a priest dwelling in a monastery on the Plateau of Leng, he was never named.

Mozzie turned to Neal. "Do you have any more drawings?"

 He nodded. "These two are the last. One shows the ghast I encountered at Whateley Rare Books and the other is of the winged creature that was flying around the steeple of St. Jude."

"You said you found the ghast in the _Necronomicon_ ," Mozzie said. "Were you able to find your winged creature there as well?"

"Unfortunately not. It was too far away for me to be certain of its features. The book depicts several winged monstrosities. I can't be certain if any of them correspond to the one I saw flying over Arkham."

Peter took the drawings and spread them out on the table and the bed so they could be compared more easily. Mozzie was particularly fascinated by the drawing of the crystal and returned it to the easel. He examined it at length before calling them over. "How exact a diagram do you feel this is?"

"It's as accurate as I could make it," Neal said.

"The shape is highly unusual. What you've drawn is a trapezohedron."

Neal blinked. "I've never heard of that."                                                             

"You haven't?" Mozzie appeared staggered that Neal hadn't heard of it, but Peter didn't know what it meant either. Mozzie pulled out a well-worn notebook from his jacket pocket and sketched a shape. "This is a trapezium—four sides, but only two of them are parallel. In a trapezohedron, each face is composed of a trapezium. Neal, your ignorance in this case is a blessing. You couldn't have made this up. It's exceedingly rare to see a gemstone cut into this shape."

Muttering to himself about polyhedrons, pyramids, and the deficiencies of geometry teachers, Mozzie withdrew to the bedroom to study the Leng drawings. Neal appeared fascinated by the construction of a trapezohedron and continued to study the crystal.

Peter picked up his coffee mug and headed to the kitchen for a refill. June's pecan pie on the counter was calling to him. "Hey, Neal, shouldn't we slice the pie?"

When Neal didn't answer, Peter glanced over to see him frozen in place, apparently mesmerized by the drawing. Peter called out again, but Neal was oblivious to him. Striding over, Peter shoved him onto a chair as he began to sway.

Mozzie hurried over. "What's going on?"

"He's having a vision. You haven't experienced this yet. It scares the hell out of me. I worry he won't be able to emerge." Peter turned to Neal and began shaking his shoulder. "C'mon, Neal, snap out of it."

With a gasp, Neal sagged into the chair. Mozzie scurried into the kitchenette, filled a glass with wine, and started to hand it to Neal.

Peter grabbed the glass away from him. "Are you nuts? The kid needs water, not wine."

"St. Bernard dogs don't carry water in their casks," he retorted but returned to the kitchenette for a glass. It made Peter wonder how Neal had managed to survive his teen years with Mozzie as a mentor.

"No murder, at least," Neal muttered. "That's progress."

"What did you see?" Peter demanded.

Neal rubbed his temples. "The Nautical Shop. I was standing in front of a display of instruments when you pulled me out."

"The Nautical Shop on Estes Lane?" Mozzie asked. At Neal's confirmation, he added, "I've visited there often. Their collection of antique navigational instruments and telescopes is without parallel. Did you see any starfish carvings? Ghasts? Winged creatures?"

"No, nothing like that. I didn't see anyone, human or monster. I don't understand what the significance is."

"We should visit the shop," Mozzie declared. "Something there may spark a memory and you'll have another vision. It's unfortunate the shop's already closed for the night. When are you free tomorrow?"

Neal didn't answer immediately but at Mozzie's prodding he suggested the following afternoon. Peter was also available and they agreed to meet on campus to walk over together.

While they had dessert, Mozzie grilled Neal for additional details about his vision. "Are you sure you don't remember anything else?"

"I'm sorry," Neal said helplessly. "That's all there is."

Mozzie turned to Peter. "This is your fault. You extracted him too soon. Who knows what invaluable knowledge he would have otherwise acquired?" Grumbling, he helped himself to a second slice of pie and resumed his study of the drawings.

Neal stood up and excused himself, escaping onto the terrace.

Peter gave him a couple of minutes before following. He found Neal leaning against the wall, looking up at the stars. "Do you want company?"

He glanced over and winced. "Sorry, I'm not being a very good host. I shouldn't have walked out like that."

"There's no need to apologize. It's quite understandable. Mozzie was getting a little carried away."

"He wasn't to blame. I'm upset too. I'd hoped I was done with visions, but I guess not." He pulled out the amulet and huffed. "Some good you are."

"You remember, I told you after your last episode, I expected you'd have more."

"I worked on that drawing for hours and didn't sense anything out of the ordinary. How could it suddenly throw me into a vision?" Neal didn't expect an answer and Peter had none to give him. "Sometimes I feel like I'm a pawn in someone's twisted game. Lavinia may understand what's happening but she won't tell me anything. And why should I see a random scene in a shop? It simply defies logic." Neal eyed him anxiously. "Is schizophrenia the answer?"

"Honestly, I don't think so. I admit I don't know what to make of what you experienced in the church, but your earlier vision of the bookstore was spot on. You should view your visions as a gift, not a millstone. I realize there's a lot of pressure on you. It's your first term to teach. You've got the police after you to decipher the starfish writing. Add to that all the time you spend working in the library vault on the appendices to the _Necronomicon_ . . . If you're not careful, you'll wind up having hallucinations out of sheer exhaustion. You need to learn how to pace yourself, take time out to breathe."

Neal glanced over at him. "Take time for pie?"

"It was delicious. How often do you get Bourbon pecan pie? And you barely touched your slice." He shrugged. "I may need to revise my opinion. Perhaps you are insane."

He chuckled sheepishly. "Point noted. Mozzie may have finished the entire pie in our absence."

Crisis defused, they walked back inside. The evening had been revealing, not simply because of Neal's drawings and his vision. Was he burying himself in his work because of outside pressures or because of Kate? When Peter had experienced a death in the family, he'd acted much the same way.

**The Nautical Shop. Friday afternoon.**

"Any visions yet?" Mozzie asked eagerly.

Neal shook his head. "I don't know even know what I'm supposed to be looking for." It was frustrating. They'd arrived a half-hour ago and nothing was happening. He was feeling more than a little foolish. When they'd asked the proprietor, Caleb Truxton, if anything unusual had happened in his shop recently, he looked like he suspected them of playing a prank on him.

"It's possible your vision wasn't about an event but some object in the store," Peter speculated.

Peter's idea was a good one, but to hunt through the entire shop could take days. The shop supplied the entire Northeastern Seaboard with navigational instruments, binoculars, and telescopes. In addition to the instruments on display, the storeroom in the back was filled with boxes of equipment.

They decided to concentrate on the antique section of the shop because it bore the closest resemblance to Neal's vision. Neal wandered down the aisles filled with display cases of gleaming brass instruments. Was a starfish laced with algolnium lurking behind a cabinet? Would he be able to detect the presence of a ghast? Peter and Mozzie were equally unsure what they were supposed to do. Mozzie followed him like a squirrel hoping for a handout. This was a bad idea.

Neal stopped at a case which was filled with armillary spheres ranging from the simple to the insanely complex.

"I have a collection of these in my office," Mozzie said. "When I interview a prospective teaching assistant, one of my initial tests is to make them explain how armillary spheres operate. You'd be shocked at how many don't even know the rings represent celestial great circles or that both Copernican and Ptolemaic versions exist."

"About as many as can't read cuneiform," Peter said, surveying the instruments.

One armillary sphere in particular caught Neal's eye. It was one of the most complex instruments with multiple layers of intricately engraved brass rings. Mozzie had tried to explain to Neal once how they were used to model objects in the sky, but Neal didn't have the right kind of head to understand the concept. He was more attracted to the beauty of the instrument. Neal stared at it, his eyes piercing through the rings, down to the inner globe of the sphere.

The brass dissolved into a shimmering golden haze. Gently he blew on the haze to disperse it, and a room was revealed as if at the end of a long brass tunnel. It was the same antique section of the shop he was standing in. Was the sphere acting like a mirror? And yet, it wasn't the same. The shop was dark with only a few security lights on. A vision from the past? Or the future?

Gradually Neal became aware of another presence. A figure emerged from a dark recess in the corner. He wore black clothes and a hood, similar to their assailants in the rare bookstore a couple of weeks ago. Stealthily it approached the display and seized the armillary sphere Neal had been looking at. The thief appeared not to notice Neal but covered the sphere with a cloth and carried it toward the front of the shop. He paused at a display of nautical clocks, set the sphere down on a cabinet, and spun around to face Neal.

His clothes dissolved or Neal saw through them. Impossible to tell. All he knew was that in front of him was no human but a ghast. Its eyes blazed with hatred as it lunged for him.

With a cry Neal sprang backwards but the ghast wrapped its claws around him and drew him close, his jaws opening wide for the kill. Neal struggled. He felt its fangs on his neck—

"Hey, take it easy! That's my arm, you know."

The scene vanished to reveal Peter crouched in front of him. He'd laid a hand on Neal's shoulder to support him. That was Peter's arm Neal was gripping, not the limb of a ghast. "Sorry," he muttered, releasing Peter.

"Who'd you think I was?" he asked with a laugh, shaking his arm. "A ghast?" His smile vanished when he saw Neal's reaction. "I _was_ a ghast."

Neal nodded, catching his breath. From somewhere they'd found a chair and he was sitting in front of the case of armillary spheres. Mozzie was scribbling notes into a notebook. Great. He'd yet again proven his usefulness as a lab rat.

Neal reported what had occurred. "Since nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the shop, if you want to ascribe a meaning to this, I'd have to say that what we're looking at is a future crime scene."

Mozzie closed his notebook. "You're positive this is the sphere the ghast stole?"

At Neal's nod, Mozzie called out to the shop owner, "Caleb, you can wrap this one up. I'm taking it with me."

Neal stared at his friend. "Did you see the price tag?"

Mozzie waved his hand dismissively. "A pittance for such an object of fascination. It will go well with my collection and I can't conduct all the experiments I'm planning for it—and you—in these cramped quarters."

"We need to let Diana know," Peter declared.

"Tell her I had a vision of a ghast? She doesn't know anything about ghasts. She'll think I'm certifiable."

Mozzie peered into the display case at the sphere. "Who's Diana?" he asked absently.

"Detective Diana Briscoe," Peter explained. "She's with the Arkham police. I let Neal talk me into not telling her about his encounter with the ghast in the bookstore, but we can't put it off any longer."

Mozzie turned to study Neal. "You're still looking a little green. I doubt Caleb has brandy around." He shook his head in disapproval. "Never mind, we'll make do with water." He took off for the front of the store.

Peter stood up. "I know this is a big step, but you said it yourself. This is a future crime scene. If we don't say something, a criminal could break into the Nautical Shop. Caleb could be killed. You told me you felt guilty over Seth's murder. How will you feel if history repeats itself and you didn't warn the police?"

Peter was right, but Diana trusted in Neal's ability. She thought he'd be able to decrypt the starfish language. Now what would she think? If she didn't believe he was playing a joke on her, she'd write him off as a nutcase.

Mozzie returned with the glass of water. "Caleb's writing up the invoice now. Soon this beauty will be mine. I'll call Cyrus. He'll want to analyze it."

Neal knew that was only the beginning. Mozzie would want Neal to gaze at the armillary sphere for long hours which could be much better spent in the library vault. Neal gulped down the water as he gloomily contemplated what his future as a lab rat would be like. At Mozzie's insistence, he'd already repeatedly stared at the ruby crystal in his drawing with nothing happening. Apparently visions were a one-time phenomenon. Maybe Mozzie could use a substitute. "How about Travis?" Neal suggested hopefully. "He helps you on your other experiments. I'm sure he'd be a willing volunteer."

"Who's Travis?" Peter asked.

"Travis Mayweather," Mozzie explained. "Assistant Professor of Astrophysics. Bright lad. Yes, he'll do nicely as a control, and his mechanical expertise will be useful." He paused for a moment and jotted down more notes. "But I'll still need you," he warned. "Keep your schedule free."

"I'm heading to the police station," Peter declared. He turned to Neal and raised a brow. "You ready? We'll stop by your place first to pick up your drawing of the ghast. She'll want to photograph it." Neal exhaled and nodded reluctantly. They were supposed to be working with the police. Keeping secrets from them wasn't the way to cooperate. At the worst, Diana would simply laugh in his face. She wouldn't immediately haul him off to the funny farm . . . probably.

Peter slapped him on the back. "You just stared down a ghast. Facing Diana can't compare with that, right? Neal?"

"Don't rush me. I'm thinking."

 

* * *

 **_Notes_** _: Thanks for reading! Please join me next week for Chapter 2: Ghast in the Night. I plan to post weekly on Wednesday. Many thanks to the awesome Penna Nomen, creator of the Caffrey Conversation AU, for once more providing outstanding beta and cheerleader support._

_FBI Agent Diana Berrigan began writing Arkham Files fics as part of a strategy to capture a cybercriminal nicknamed Azathoth. Most of her characters are drawn from the world of White Collar and retain their same given names. Events and characters in Arkham Files are sometimes referenced in the Caffrey Conversation stories and have an impact on plot development. Diana drew inspiration for some of the scenes in The Locked Room from Raphael's Dragon, but it's not necessary to have read that story. Diana's user name is Lomaria and she occasionally posts comments to the Arkham Files stories._

_Diana's beta reader is June Ellington. It was at her request that Diana had Neal sing "Let It Be" at the beginning of the chapter. The song has a special significance for June, as those of you who've read Caffrey Flashback may recall._

_In this story, Diana's included several references to The Woman in Blue, the story where Azathoth first appeared. I've written about her strategy for our blog in a post called "Echoes of The Woman in Blue."  
_

_I'm posting this in the holiday season, but in Neal Carter's timeline it's early fall. Penna is coming to the rescue for all those seeking holiday fare. I'm excited to report that she's writing a multi-chapter story called A Caffrey Christmas Carol which she'll begin posting midmonth. This week she wrote about that story for our blog in a post called "Neal and Peter and Regrets." In addition, we have three other stories with holiday themes: Choirboy Caffrey (Christmas 2003), An Evening with Genji (an early Christmas 2004 story set in New York), and Caffrey Aloha (Christmas 2004 in Hawaii)._

**_Blog_** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com)  
**_Chapter Visuals and Music_** _: The Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)

_Disclaimers: The worlds of_ _White Collar and the Cthulhu Mythos as envisaged by H.P. Lovecraft, August Derleth, and others are not mine, alas._


	2. Ghast in the Night

**Arkham Police Station. September 26, 1975. Friday afternoon.**

If it had been up to Neal, he and Peter wouldn't be sitting at the police station. Peter was the one who insisted on the necessity of reporting his vision at the Nautical Shop to Diana. Peter saw the possibility of preventing a break-in. All Neal saw was impending disaster.

The last time he'd had a vision of a crime—Seth's murder in the rare bookstore—he hadn't told Diana about it. The murder had already occurred by the time he arrived at the bookstore so there was no reason to. As it was, she still accused him of being psychic.

_But this vision was different. You saw a clock. You know when it will happen._ Those words were Peter's, not Neal's. And he was right, of course, but no one was going to accuse Peter of being a lunatic.

When Diana saw them walk into the police station, she'd led them into the small interrogation room they'd used before, a windowless room sparsely furnished with a large table and a few uncomfortable wooden chairs. The room was designed to convey the message that the Arkham Police Department didn't waste tax dollars on anything that would remotely make a suspected criminal—or a college professor—feel at ease.

"Tell me you've deciphered the starfish script." Diana crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward in anticipation.

Her disappointment was obvious when Neal reported his lack of progress.

"Have you learned anything more about the assailants in the bookstore?" Peter asked. Neal appreciated him switching the subject off that sensitive topic. "Any new theories on why the injured man died so unexpectedly?"

Diana shook her head. "The autopsy didn't reveal any preexisting conditions which would have caused him to die from a wound such as the one he received. Blood loss was minimal. There was some evidence of coronary artery disease, so the official report provisionally states the cause of death to be a heart attack. We haven't been able to apprehend the other assailant."

"Have there been any other cases involving starfish?" Neal asked.

"Not since the one on September fifteenth which I already told you about. You know I would have called you if another one had been found. Is this simply a social call or do you have another reason for taking up my time?"

Why did she glare at him rather than Peter? Did she think he was easier to intimidate? Was she so abrasive with everyone? Neal had been wavering about whether or not to mention the ghast, but she decided it for him. Peter was starting to speak, but Neal jumped in first. Clearing his throat, he assumed his most professorial manner. "I'd like to report another crime."

She stared at him. "Do you mean another murder? When? Where? Why didn't I hear about it?"

"Because it hasn't happened yet." Neal said forcefully. Out of the corner of his eye, he relished Peter's half-smile of approval. Naturally, that wasn't Diana's reaction. Her scowl would have frozen a stampeding rhinoceros in its tracks, but Neal stood his ground. He attempted to radiate composure in an effort to reassure her that his wits were still intact.

"What's this nonsense you're spouting now? How can you report something that hasn't even happened?"

"That's irrelevant. What's important is that we need to prevent it." That was meant to be decisive, but it came out more like a question.

"Diana, we haven't been completely forthright with you," Peter added. "Neal had a vision of the murder in the bookstore before it happened." Her eyebrows ascended into her Afro. Peter took advantage of her momentary shocked silence to explain Neal's vision in the alehouse.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she exclaimed.

"Because you wouldn't have believed me," Neal said. She grudgingly acknowledged the truth of his words with a shrug. "It was the first time I'd ever had a vision, and I didn't know what was happening. I saw Seth being killed in my head and when I arrived at the bookstore, it was just as in my vision. This time, the crime hasn't happened yet, and there's a chance we could prevent it. Don't you at least want to hear about it?"

She exhaled sharply, studying both of them for what seemed like an eternity. "Normally, if someone came in with a tale like this, I'd call for the straitjackets, but not now. We're faced with a series of crimes where the evidence _poofs_ out of existence on us. We have perps dying mysteriously, precious few clues, and a strange language which I'm assured you're the only one who's capable of cracking. Don't misunderstand me—I'm issuing no promise I'll believe you, but go ahead and tell me what you saw or think you saw." She sat back in her chair, the frown never leaving her face.

Neal hurried to describe his visions in the loft and the shop before she changed her mind. "In the second vision I was at the entrance to the antique section. It was late at night. I happened to glance at one of the clocks on display and it indicated a time of 22:15. As I drew close to the point where I was standing in reality, I saw an individual clothed in black like the attacker in the bookstore. He wrapped up the armillary sphere I was looking at. Perhaps he heard me—I don't know—but he spun around, and that's when I . . . umm . . . when I . . . came to."

"I was with him," Peter added. "Neal is a brilliant, well-respected member of the faculty. He doesn't go around inventing wild tales. He's not prone to hallucinations." Neal wished that were true. He doubted many on the faculty even knew who he was. And as for the hallucinations . . . Still, he appreciated the endorsement.

She continued to eye him skeptically. "Did you see a starfish in your vision-dream-psychic hallucination or whatever you were having?"

"No," Neal admitted, steeling himself for another barrage. "But I'm convinced a burglary will occur. I intend to be there tonight."

"And I'll be there with him," Peter added in a determined voice.

"Are you both nuts now?" Despite her words, Neal could tell she was not dismissing what he said completely. She drummed her fingers on the table for a moment and appeared to come to a decision. "Two days ago, Hiram Whateley reported he'd discovered a book missing from his bookstore. He's been conducting an inventory since the break-in. He can't be certain the book was taken at the time of the murder. I gather his inventory system is as ancient as his books." She turned to Neal. "Did he mention the loss to you?"

"No, I haven't spoken with him for several days."

She nodded. "I had to ask. The missing book is a nineteenth century German treatise on armillary sphere construction." She smiled at their reaction. "I thought you'd be interested. So, perhaps there is something to this vision of yours. But if you're convinced a burglar will hit the store, why not simply warn the shop owner not to be there in the evening? He'll be out of harm's way, and if a thief does break in, no innocents will be injured. You have nothing to indicate the burglary will happen tonight, tomorrow, next year, or next century."

"You're right," Neal said, "but the murder at the bookstore took place at roughly the same time as my vision. That leads me to conclude there's a good chance the break-in will occur this evening." He hesitated for a moment. Should he? Diana knew about the visions. How much more could his credibility suffer? "I need to be there . . . to see the thief. I saw his face in my vision and I have to know if it's the same."

"You saw his face?" Diana echoed, her face lighting up. "Now we're getting somewhere. I'll pull out our mug books. If you can identify him, you'll have company tonight."

She started to rise, but Neal raised a hand to stop her. "He won't be in any of your mug books."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because . . . he wasn't human." Neal exhaled in relief. _Embrace the madness_ , Mozzie had said. He'd be pleased Neal was following his advice.

For the next several minutes he and Peter reviewed the ghasts Neal had seen—the first occurrence in the rare bookstore, the ghast Neal had seen on the street one evening, and now the one at the Nautical Shop. They showed her his drawing. Since Diana had never heard of the library vault or the _Necronomicon_ , it took a while. In a rare gesture, she even offered them some of the police station's coffee. It was appreciated. Neal was running on fumes by this point, and even police station swill seemed like nectar of the gods.

"You know what my response is," she said at the end. "Show me the proof that all this is something more than the delusions of an academic who I admit at my insistence has probably been staring far too long at starfish." She waggled her finger at him. "And I warn you up front that a sketch in a medieval book or the drawing you made doesn't count as evidence."

At least she hadn't called for the padded wagon. Neal was going to take that as a victory of sorts.

"You give us a rational explanation for why the starfish disappeared from your evidence vault," Peter countered. "You tell us why the assailant in the bookstore died so unexpectedly. Neal saw a ghast on the street one night, and a few hours later, another murder was committed with a starfish left at the scene. At the bookstore where he saw the ghast, a starfish was found. You can't deny there may be a connection between the two. You called us in to help you because you were at a loss to explain the starfish. And that's what we're trying to do."

Diana made a face as she studied them. "I gather I'd have to lock you up to keep you from returning to the Nautical Shop tonight?"

When they nodded in unison, she said with a sigh, "I suppose I'm willing to sacrifice a couple of hours from my Friday evening to join you. Jones will as well. If I'm wrecking my social life, he can too." She told them to return at 9 o'clock. They'd drive to the location in an unmarked surveillance van.

Peter and Neal left the police station together. Peter was heading home where Elizabeth was waiting for him. She'd drawn the night shift tonight, and they'd catch an early supper before she needed to leave. Neal planned to spend the time at his usual Friday night date scene—the library vault.

His first stakeout. What do you wear to a stakeout? How do you pass the time? Telling jokes? Did he know any jokes? They probably wouldn't appreciate Old Norse humor. Should he take snacks? Nah. In all the cop shows he'd watched, the police were amply provisioned with coffee and donuts.

**Peter's townhouse. Friday evening.**

"Neal told Diana about ghasts? And she still agreed to let you participate on a stakeout?" El smiled as she took the lasagna out of the oven and set it on the counter. "You don't give her enough credit."

Peter finished tossing the salad and reached into the cabinet for the croutons. "Neal surprised me. On the way to the police station he must have spent fifteen minutes arguing what a bad idea it was to tell her about ghasts. Then he went ahead and did it. I suspect he's half-convinced himself he's schizophrenic and the thought terrifies him."

They took their plates and drinks into the dining room and sat down at the table. "I've noticed," El said. "When he came in Monday for the latest round of tests, he asked me what I knew about John Nash's illness."

"The mathematician?"

"That's right," she said, dishing out the salad. "Neal had researched his case. Nash has been open in discussing the delusions and hallucinations associated with his schizophrenia. It's clear Neal is concerned about how similar they sound to the phenomena he's experienced."

"Nash's work in mathematics and computer science has been revolutionary. I wouldn't be surprised if one day he wins the Nobel Prize. He's now returned to teaching. His situation should give Neal reassurance that even if he does receive a similar diagnosis, it's not necessarily the end of his career."

She shook her head. "I don't think that Neal would agree with you. Nash was institutionalized for many years in psychiatric hospitals. His struggle with the disease has been a lengthy one. I read that as a result he refuses any further treatment. Neal could look at his example and extrapolate what would happen to a first-year member of the faculty. Nash's brilliance was recognized before he showed any symptoms. Neal has yet to prove himself."

El's insights were troubling. No wonder Neal had been so worried about talking with Diana. "If Neal is concerned he'll suffer a similar fate, that could help explain why he's pushing himself so much. I thought it was because of Kate but this could also be a factor. You know where he is now?"

"The library?"

"Where else? I tried to talk him out of it and invited him to join us for dinner, but he begged off. He made a joke out of it. Can you believe he ribbed me for acting like a dad?" Peter paused in mid-bite. "I'm not that way at all, am I?"

El eyed him skeptically. "Hon . . . have you been going grizzly on him?"

He chuckled sheepishly. "He does bring it out in me, I guess."

"I wonder if his anxiety isn't partly derived from the stories revolving around the Arkham Sanitarium. It's been closed for thirty years now, but tales about some of the inmates persist. I wish they'd tear down the building."

"I heard the Arkham Historical Society is fighting the demolition. They claim it's an architectural treasure. But I'm with you— it's a depressing reminder of a dark period in Arkham's history."

"I've gotten back the second set of test results and planned to discuss them with Neal next week at my office, but it may be better to go ahead this weekend. We could have him over for dinner tomorrow. I'll be off. After working the night shift, I'm not scheduled for anything till next week."

"Have you reached any conclusions?"

She nodded, setting down her fork. "I have, but I know you understand that I'd rather discuss them with Neal present. The findings will be difficult for him to hear. I'm glad you'll be present too. He'll need our support."

El's words were unsettling. What was she preparing him for? But Peter knew better than to quiz her further. Was she already regretting she'd said so much? With an effort, he thrust his concerns aside for the moment. "I'll invite him when I see him tonight. I'm sure he'll be free. I don't think he has any social life to speak of. He spends his evenings on his courses or research. He had a raw deal with Kate. It's going to take him a while to get over it."

"I remember you mentioning Kate and what potential she had. It's such a shame what happened. When was the plane crash? January?"

"December 29," Peter corrected. "She was heading back to the dig in Java."

"I remember now. If you hadn't cut your holiday short to get a head start, you could have been with her on that plane." El clasped her hands together in front of her and fell silent.

Peter stroked her arm. "I overheard Kate talk about someone she was dating when she was on the dig in the fall. She was planning to spend Christmas in England. It must have been to visit Neal. He told me he'd proposed over the holiday. Now he needs to move on, but it can't be easy." 

"I may be able to obtain a couple of extra tickets to the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young concert next weekend. The event is sold out but one of my colleagues at the hospital is on the Events Advisory Committee. We could ask Neal to join us and encourage him to bring a date."

"Better not call it a date. He's built quite a wall around himself, and I don't think he's ready to lower the drawbridge."

"He just needs a little encouragement. I could fix him up, but I'm sure he'd object to that. Has he mentioned anyone?"

El, the matchmaker. Should he warn Neal about his wife's propensity to want to see everyone happily married off? If he did, he predicted Neal would bolt for the exit. "There's Sara. She's a friend from his undergrad days. Works as an investigative journalist for the _Arkham Gazette_. We bumped into her at the police station. I could suggest he invite her. It wouldn't seem like a date and may not spook him. It would just be friends going to a concert."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"Like a donut?" Jones passed the box over to Neal.

He helped himself to a chocolate glazed donut. The stakeout was living up to his expectations. They were sitting in an unmarked police van a couple of doors down from the Nautical Shop. The van was equipped with one-way glass on the back and sides.

Diana had brought along a thermos of coffee. Jones supplied the donuts. So far no jokes. Instead, they passed the time by discussing their backgrounds.

Jones had been a Navy pilot during the Vietnam War and had been stationed in the Philippines. "It's not something I talk about a lot," he confessed. "The anti-war sentiment at Miskatonic ran pretty strong. You were probably out protesting when I was overseas."

Neal shook his head. "I was taking a double course load and didn't have time for much else." His freshman year, the campus has seen its share of protests and Mozzie had engaged in many of them, but he was careful to keep Neal clear of his activities, saying that since he was only sixteen he was too young.

"Were you stationed at Subic Bay?" Peter asked.

Jones nodded. "For three years."

"I was there in the '60s, after I graduated from college. Served with the Navy, researching the shipwrecks in Subic Bay."

"I met a Tom Gilman when I was in the Philippines. He any relation?"

Peter nodded. "He was my brother." 

Neal looked at him with surprise. Peter had never mentioned having siblings.

"I met him shortly before I was reassigned," Jones noted. "He was a member of a Seawolf crew, wasn't he?"

"That's right. He was a gunner." Peter's expression had grown somber. At Neal's unspoken question, he added. "He died in '71. His chopper was shot down."

Neal started to speak but Diana cut in abruptly. "Check out the man moving out of the alley."

Neal craned his neck to see who she was referring to. Skinny, short guy with curly red hair, dressed in jeans and a black rain jacket. He was using the hood even though it wasn't raining and the weather was quite mild.

"Remember my orders," warned Diana, sharply. "If he tries to enter the shop, we wait till he forces the lock before making a move. She spared a quick glance at Neal and Peter. "You two are under no circumstances to leave the van. You are to let us handle it. Got it?"

Neal nodded while concentrating on the figure. Could he sense any algolnium? The starfish in the bookstore had contained only a small amount of algolnium, and he'd needed to be within a few feet to detect it. Peter apparently realized what he was doing and gave him a questioning look. Neal shook his head. If there was a starfish present, he wasn't feeling it.

Jones and Diana used binoculars to monitor the suspect's actions, Jones supplying them with a low-voiced commentary. "He's heading toward the shop . . . Reaching into his pocket . . . Can't make out what he pulled."

"Looks like a lock pick," Diana said, clipping her words. "There . . . He's using it. Go."

Jones had already opened the back door. They sprang out of the van and ran toward him. Diana ordered the man to freeze. He spun around and opened his mouth. Neal watched horrified as his features lengthened and distorted. He no longer wore clothes to hide his rough emaciated skin. He'd grown in size to be at least eight feet tall with arms as long as his hooved legs and ending in sharp claws. What had been a man was now a ghast.

Diana and Jones appeared oblivious to the danger. The ghast was already starting toward them.

Neal sprang for the door. He had to warn them.

Peter leaped up to block his way. "We're under orders to stay inside."

"It's a ghast!" Neal ducked around him and darted out before Peter could protest further. Dense yellow-green gas was pouring out of the ghast's mouth, enveloping Diana and Jones in a cloud of noxious fumes. They began to cough and dropped to their knees as they shielded their eyes. Easy prey for the ghast.

It lunged for Diana. Neal flung himself at it, grabbing onto its mid-section. The ghast gave a howl of—what was that? Rage? Pain? Neal tried to drag him away. He'd seized it from behind, but the ghast was kicking backwards with its hooves. Neal frantically swung from side to side, desperate to avoid them.

The fumes were dissipating as they fought. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal saw Diana and Jones stagger backward. The ghast let out a heart-stopping shriek so deafening that Neal's grip slipped. Its claws reached behind and ripped Neal off its back. Using both of its massive forelimbs, it hurled him against the wall of the shop. A spike of sharp pain erupted in the back of Neal's head, blinding him.

. . .

"Neal, are you all right?"

Why was Peter yelling so loud? What was he doing there anyway? Wasn't he supposed to stay in the van?

Peter didn't answer any of his questions, just kept bellowing in his ear. Where was he? And why was he using a drill on Neal's head? That really was uncalled for. Had Peter gone deaf?

Then Neal realized he hadn't spoken any of that aloud. He heard Peter give a low chuckle. Maybe he'd been speaking aloud after all. With a start Neal realized his eyes were closed. Peter wasn't invisible after all.

Neal pried an eye open and was startled to see Peter's face floating fuzzily overhead. He felt rough hardness beneath him. Peter wasn't the one drilling into his head but someone was.

He put out a hand and tried to push himself up, but Peter pressed him back down. "Just lie quiet. The medics will be here soon."

"What?" Neal tried to remember how he wound up on the ground. The ghast. The fumes. Diana and Jones . . . they were there. They'd seen everything. That's why Peter said the medics were coming. They were sending him to the funny farm. His vision clearing, Neal saw Diana and Jones talking quietly by the van. Their grim expressions were eloquent of what they felt. They hadn't put a straitjacket on him. That was considerate.

Neal spotted the body of the thief, about twenty feet away. Looked pretty ordinary. Not a ghast. Not a monster. There was no trace of fumes. Gas couldn't have come out the thief's mouth. It had all been a hallucination.

The jackhammer increased in intensity as Neal realized the finality of his situation. His career was over. His contract would be torn up. No time to build up disability benefits. How could he earn enough to eat? Wait. At Arkham Psychiatric they'd give him his meals. No worries there. But he'd have to eat with a plastic spoon.

"Hey, I know your head hurts, but we'll take care of it." Peter's face was still swimming overhead. Neal was growing so nauseous, he had to sit up. At least he could spare Peter the indignity of hurling on him.

He struggled once more to right himself and this time Peter let him. His last wish. He'd never seen Peter so concerned. But then it came to him. What an idiot. He was worrying about his own situation. Peter's career was tarnished too. You can't hang around with psychos without being tarred with the same brush. "I'm so sorry. I never intended to get you involved," he said in a husky voice, unable to quell the emotions churning inside him.

Peter looked so anxious that it was too much to bear. Neal closed his eyes and sagged against the side of the building.

"How's he doing?" That was Diana's voice. Neal didn't bother opening his eyes but at least she didn't sound angry. She probably didn't want to send him off on another hallucination.

Peter murmured something in an undertone. Neal couldn't make out what he said.

"Carter, open your eyes," she demanded. "Don't you pass out on me again."

Her voice was sufficiently threatening that Neal did as she ordered.

"That's better and keep them open. I'm the one who should be passing out, not you." She and Peter were both crouched low to the ground so Neal didn't have to stare up at them. Jones was still on the radio by the van.

"It's unbelievable," Peter said, his voice charged with emotion. "The beast was exactly as Neal described it. I must admit I never fully believed ghasts existed until now."

Neal's eyes popped wide open, headache forgotten. "You saw the ghast?"

"We all did," Diana said. "Jones, too."

"What did you see?" he demanded.

"When you tackled the man, he changed into the spitting image of that drawing you showed me." She looked at him with an unreadable expression. "I didn't give you enough credit. The beast appeared to be in agony. You were clinging to his midsection as he tried to tear free. He uttered a howl when he threw you off then disintegrated into a column of black smoke, leaving the body of the thief behind. This may be the only time I'm willing to give you a pass for disobeying a direct order, but don't get cocky on me." Her expression softened as she patted his knee. "And thanks. You probably saved both Jones and me. We owe you one."

"You realize no one will believe us," Jones said, walking up. "We're left with one perfectly ordinary man dead. He was unarmed. Good thing we didn't shoot him or we'd be up for charges."

"Did he have a starfish?" Neal asked. "Can I see it?"

Diana nodded but before she could say anything a police car pulled up followed by the ambulance. She and Jones left to consult with them. Neal reached out to support himself on the wall and stood up. The nausea was abating. The world spun a little at first but Peter had a firm grip on him. Neal looked down at his clothes. He had a rip in his jeans where the ghast had kicked him. He just realized it ached. He reached down to feel his leg. The ghast's hoof hadn't cut into his skin, but his thigh was sore and painful. His jacket was torn in several places. He unzipped it. No tears to his shirt.

"Let me check your back," Peter offered and Neal turned to face the wall. When Peter saw his back, he let out a gasp.

"What is it? I don't feel anything."

"Something's glowing inside your shirt. Hold onto the wall while I see what it is." Neal felt Peter reach inside his collar.

"It's probably my amulet. It must have swung around to my back when the ghast tossed me off." Neal twisted his head in an attempt to see what Peter was looking at. "Is it okay?"

"You be the judge." Peter moved the amulet to the front. "I don't want to take it off." He helped him turn around so he could lean against the wall. Neal looked down at the amulet. The verdigris-colored disk appeared phosphorescent. It was almost as bright as a neon light. "Have you ever seen it look like that?"

"Never," Neal said, staggered. "Did the ghast cause that?"

The medics came up, cutting short their discussion. They insisted on leading him to the ambulance which was not the direction Neal wanted to go. He needed to see the starfish. But when he started to protest, Peter simply rolled his eyes and told them to ignore him. Neal could see the police photographing the body and removing items from his clothes. Did he have any other artifacts?

The medics were pushing him onto the gurney. Fat chance of that happening. He had a glowing amulet. The starfish was calling to him. The bump on his head wasn't that severe. Peter was glowering, but Neal didn't care. He wasn't going to the hospital till he saw that starfish.

"If I let you see it, will you agree to go?" Peter asked. "That's my final offer. You need to be checked out. El's on duty tonight. Surely you don't want to hurt her feelings."

Diana strode over and ordered the medics to examine him. Turning to Neal, she added, "I promise I'll get you a photo. Now behave."

Neal with a groan reclined back on the gurney. It was plain she wouldn't let him anywhere near the body, and he had to admit lying down did have a certain appeal at the moment.

Peter stayed with him during the exam. "Your amulet's fading," he commented, nodding to it.

Neal glanced down. The glow was barely noticeable. Had it saved him from being killed by the ghast? Had the ghast disintegrated because of it? Could he get Lavinia to explain what happened? The medics rolled him on his side to check the back of his head. He hoped no one would shave his hair off at the hospital. That'd be worse than being attacked by a ghast. 

His eyes wandered over the street. The medics said the skin wasn't broken and had left to talk to Diana. Maybe they could just trim the hair around the bump . . . The ambulance was near a street lamp. A small animal darted in front of the light pole and disappeared behind a parked car. Shocked, Neal sat upright, fighting off the sharp stabs of protest from his head. "Did you see that?"

"What?" Peter asked as he pressed him back down on the gurney. "Do we need to strap you down?"

Neal started to shake his head and quickly decided against it. With a groan, he relaxed back onto the gurney. "It looked like a rat, but bigger, and . . . umm "

Peter bent closer as his words trailed off. "And what?"

Neal hesitated. He didn't want the medics to hear. They wouldn't understand. He grasped the lapel of Peter's jacket and whispered, "Where its snout should be, it had a mass of pink tentacles. They looked like worms."

Peter eyed him dubiously. "Are you sure?"

"I think I am." But was he? He'd only caught a quick glimpse. Could he have been mistaken?

Peter squeezed his arm. "I'm glad you told me. But do you think it's possible in this instance, you might have been confused? You took quite a whack to your head. That'd be enough to make anyone a little woozy. You were thinking I was invisible just a few minutes ago."

Was Peter right? Once he'd joked to let him know if Neal saw any unicorns. This wasn't a unicorn but it was definitely weird. Neal's head was starting to pound again. He'd sort it out later.

He could hear Diana and Jones arguing. "We can't tell anyone what we saw. We'll be laughed off the force," Diana said.

_Tell me about it._

"I saw an episode of _Mission Impossible_ last week where the team members were able to create some amazing effects with masks," Jones said. "That's probably what happened here."

"There's no evidence of a mask or makeup on his face," she pointed out, glancing at the body.

"The mask could have been set to self-destruct just like the instructions to Phelps do," Jones countered, in no mood to give up his theory. "The smoke the thief created would have obscured it."

"I'm glad you mentioned the gas. We were choking on it. How do you think he managed that?"

"It could have come from a capsule the perp tossed onto the ground. It exploded on impact and caused the fumes. Scientists can do incredible things with chemical reactions these days."

"Even if you're right about the gas, the thief didn't simply wear a mask. We saw the body of a beast which had a height of at least eight or nine feet. How do you explain that?"

"LSD," Jones said confidently.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped. "I hope you're not suggesting I take drugs."

"I bet the donuts were sprinkled with LSD or some other hallucinogenic. I bought them close to the university. With the prevalence of drugs on campus, I wouldn't be at all surprised that some kid working in the back of the shop thought this would be a great stunt."

"You're paranoid."

"I am not. You know relations are still tense in the aftermath of the war. Kids are always looking for a way to make us look bad."

Neal wasn't surprised at Jones's refusal to believe what his eyes had seen. More astonishing was that Peter and Diana weren't questioning it as well.

"What are you smiling at?" Peter asked.

"If I'm going to the funny farm, at least I'll have company."

**Sharkey's Bar, The Waterfront. Friday night.**

Keller had already arrived when Chad entered the alley next to Sharkey's. That late at night, the area was deserted. A few scrawny cats were scrounging the trash cans for anything edible.

The largest rat Chad had ever seen scurried away just as he walked up to Keller. It was the size of a large squirrel and looked like it could make a meal of one of the cats. Chad approached Keller and lit a cigarette. "Why the call?"

"Trouble," Keller said shortly.

"Did Rusty fail?"

He nodded. "The heist was busted. Cops moved in. Rusty was nailed before he could steal the armillary sphere."

"He's the anointed one. You told me anointed ones retain their power for two days. He could try again. Breaking out of a jail cell won't give him any problem."

"It will this time. Rusty's dead and the ghast within him too."

Chad stared at Keller, stunned. He thought nothing could kill them. "How? Did the cops use explosives?"

"Don't know yet, but until we find out what happened, there won't be any more attempts. I just got the word."

"How did you find out?"

He shrugged. "Never you mind. You'll learn soon enough. You've been an acolyte for how long—a month now? This is just a temporary setback. Once the scouts check things out, we'll be back in business."

Keller had mentioned the scouts before, but never explained who they were. Chad assumed they were members who'd been trained in commando tactics. There was still so much he didn't know about the brotherhood. "Should I go ahead with the recruitment?"

"Of course. We need them now more than ever."

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Neal no longer has to worry that he's the only one seeing ghasts. As for that other creature he spotted on the streets of Arkham, there will be much more about it in future chapters. I wrote about Neal's encounters with the unknown for our blog. Coming next week in Chapter 3: Starman, the unknown acquires a new dimension._

_Peter and El's discussion of Nash was factually accurate. Nash's biography, A Beautiful Mind, was made into a movie which came out in 2001. Peter was being prophetic when he mentioned the Nobel Prize. Nash was awarded the Nobel Memorial Prize in Economic Sciences for his work in game theory in 1994. At the time of this story, Nash was no longer institutionalized. He had resumed his research and was once again teaching._

_Elizabeth Burke drew on her father's experiences as a psychiatrist for her character. Diana's added a comment about El's suggestions for this chapter. Many thanks to Penna for all her insights, and thanks to you for reading and your comments!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	3. Starman

**Peter's townhouse. September 27, 1975. Saturday evening.**

"Sorry, no wine for you," El said, coming out of the kitchen with a cheese tray, "but Peter will pour your cider into a wine glass."

"That's what I get for having dinner with my doctor," Neal said. "I can't hide anything." He'd arrived at Peter and El's home to be greeted by the delectable smells of a pork roast in the oven. He wasn't about to complain at the lack of wine.

El sat down next to him on the couch. Peter had gone into the kitchen for the drinks. Over the past few weeks, between the research that he and Peter were conducting in the library and the medical tests that El was running on him, it seemed like Neal was seeing one or the other every day. It was disconcerting to realize how much they seemed like family now. It was a good feeling, particularly now.

Neal found himself scanning El's face for clues. Peter had told him she had some of the test results back. He'd attempted to pump Peter for details, but he insisted he didn't know any. In the hospital the previous night, El had refused to discuss the results, claiming that he was too woozy from the concussion. Neal took a breath and forced himself to relax. If it were anything serious, she would have told him straight off, right? Most likely, the big news was that he'd need to submit to yet another series of tests. Minimal expectations—that was the best way to play it.

"How's your head?" she asked.

"I'm fin—"

She held up a hand, giving him a stern look. "Didn't you just mention you couldn't hide anything from your doctor?"

He winced. "And you caught me red-handed, but really it's not that bad. The bump's tender but unless I knock my head against the wall it's not an issue. The headache comes and goes, but it's not severe. Better answer?"

"Much. You were lucky it wasn't far worse." He'd escaped with only a mild concussion and a few bruises from his confrontation with the ghast. Much to his relief, no head shaving was required.

Peter returned to the living room. "The roast needs another twenty minutes. What was Mozzie's reaction to the ghast?"

"Exactly as I predicted. He was inconsolable that he missed it. The fact that he never would have agreed to participate in a police op did little to mitigate the pain."

"Why is Mozzie so leery of the police?" El asked.

"Think of him as the poster boy for the anti-establishment counterculture movement. He was marching against nuclear weapons testing, Vietnam, and DDT when I was in junior high school. The list of demonstrations he's taken part in over the past several years is so extensive that he's convinced all law enforcement agencies would like nothing better than to spy on him." Neal paused for breath. He judged it best not to mention the draft card-burning and bra-burning protests, although Mozzie was proud of the key role he played in both.

"In other words, he's paranoid," Peter said bluntly.

Neal nodded. "He's taken it to new heights."

"Does Mr. Paranoia have any theories to explain why I could see the ghast as well?"

"Several, but he lost me on the physics. Something about magnetic waves and particle exchange. I finally had to ask him to stop because it was making my head hurt. He believes I caused it, since the ghast became visible only after I was in physical contact with it." Neal turned to face El. Forget minimal expectations. He had to know. "We still have several minutes before dinner. Isn't it time you let me know about the results?"

She hesitated. "I didn't realize you would have such a stressful evening last night when I mentioned discussing them this weekend. I completely understand your impatience. I'd feel the same way, but I can't help wishing the timing had been better. If your head starts to bother you, you need to tell me." At Neal's promise, she set down her wine glass and continued. "That first day you were tested, we determined that Peter's soapstone artifact excites a region within your visual cortex. Subsequent tests confirm that your cortex exhibits neural activity unlike any that has ever been reported. It's strengthened in intensity over the testing period and now appears stable. I've shown the results—without identifying you, of course—to my neuroscientist colleagues and they couldn't believe it. We tested the equipment to verify that a mechanical error wasn't responsible. The neurons in your brain exhibit patterns that, to put it simply, were not considered possible."

"But what does that mean?" Neal asked. "Is my brain damaged?"

"I don't believe so. When you're not exposed to the soapstone, it behaves perfectly normally. As to why it's acting that way, I believe I've found at least a partial indicator." She paused and viewed him with concern. "Are you sure you're ready to hear this?"

Neal had been focused so intently on her words, he only now realized he'd been holding his breath. He nodded. "I'd rather know. The uncertainty has been brutal."

"The clearest indication of an anomaly was in the cerebrospinal fluid we drew from you. You've now had two spinal taps. In the tap I performed earlier this week I detected an element I wasn't able to identify. It was only with Cyrus's help that I succeeded." She took his hand. "Cyrus confirmed that you have algolnium within your cerebrospinal fluid."

Neal simply stared at her for a minute. "The element in Peter's soapstone is also in _me_?"

She nodded. "It appears to be part of your body chemistry. And that's not all. After we identified the algolnium, I performed a second analysis of the first sample. This time I was able to detect the presence of algolnium, but in a much smaller percentage. Your first spinal tap was done on the day after your experience in the derelict church. In one week's time, the amount of algolnium in your system had quadrupled. Its growth rate is frankly unprecedented, but then we have no experience with the element, so everything about this is unique."

"You mean the algolnium's acting like a tumor?"

She shook her head forcefully. "Not at all. It appears to be self-replicating. You shouldn't view this as a disease. Your body chemistry is different. That doesn't mean it's dangerous or unhealthy. We simply don't know. I suspect that the growth of algolnium is a type of neurogenesis, similar to what occurs in every human's brain. Most of our neuron growth is pre-natal. As we age, the number of neurons we possess declines. With you apparently algolnium stimulates your brain to create new neurons. Did that activity start with your exposure to Peter's artifact? It's impossible to know, since we weren't aware algolnium existed before then."

If ever Neal could have used a drink, this was the moment. He wasn't radioactive, but he was walking around with algolnium inside him. And it was growing.

El was continuing to talk. He forced himself to focus on her words. "We shouldn't make any assumptions at this stage. It's quite possible that others have algolnium in their systems. The element hasn't been given official status yet." She was keeping her voice even and calm while his thoughts were spinning out of control. "I know the last thing you want to hear is that you should come in for more tests, but until the composition of your spinal fluid is stable, we need to continue monitoring it."

Neal looked to Peter for his reaction. "I'd said this is a major breakthrough," he said in response to Neal's mute question. "It probably explains why we were able to view the ghast last night. When you had your first encounter, the amount of algolnium in you system was much smaller, and no one else could see it."

Neal appreciated that Peter was trying to move the discussion along, using the algolnium to explain some of the mysterious events they'd witnessed. But Neal wasn't there yet. Peter might not be dwelling on what it meant for Neal, but he was. Just who was he? What was he?

"It certainly offers the potential of a causal relationship," El agreed. "Yesterday I ran additional tests on the spinal fluid sample." She turned to Neal. "You remember that after your experience in the church, you were covered in frost and your core temperature had dropped to a dangerous level?"

He nodded. "You were astonished that I didn't suffer frostbite or cellular damage."

"That's right. It didn't seem possible with the degree of hypothermia that you exhibited. But now I believe I know why. The algolnium appears to act like an antifreeze in your system. I subjected a sample of the fluid to a temperature drop similar to what you exhibited and it remained stable. The algolnium could have protected you from cellular damage. It may have other beneficial properties as well."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After El's disclosure, Peter was uncertain how to proceed. Neal was clearly stunned. The implications would be far-reaching, but at the moment they would be all be speculative. Theories on why he had algolnium in his system would most likely be unprovable. Peter shuddered to think what ideas Mozzie would come up with.

Now he understood why El had been so hesitant to tell Neal tonight. She'd admitted before Neal arrived that if Peter hadn't already mentioned it to him, she wouldn't have gone ahead. Peter and El never kept secrets from each other, but was this an instance she'd regretted talking about Neal's case? Peter hoped not. Keeping people in the dark was not the answer. Time was. Give Neal time and he'd process the news on his own.

During dinner, Peter and El shied away from speculating on the algolnium. Instead the conversation revolved on the previous night's attack, a subject only slightly less controversial but not quite so personal.

"I spoke with Diana this morning," Peter said as he carved the roast at the table. "She inquired about you. As she tactfully put it, she was relieved you hadn't permanently scrambled your brain last night. The would-be thief exhibited many of the same symptoms of the assailant who attacked us in the bookstore. The apparent cause of death is heart attack. His name was Rusty Schuyler. He was a known troublemaker who usually hung out on the waterfront. Had been brought in for petty theft, but no violent crimes to his name. No family that they know of."

"Did she mention if she included the ghast in her report?" El asked.

"With no proof who would believe them? Although Diana doesn't believe she was hallucinating, she admits she can't do anything unless she has hard evidence. As it is, Jones refuses to believe he actually saw a ghast. He continues to insist the donuts were drugged. He ordered the entire staff at the donut shop brought in for questioning."

"Jones will have to find another donut shop," Neal predicted, forking a slice of the roast onto his plate. "If he goes back to that store, they'll probably lace his donuts with salt." His expression grew serious. "What about the starfish?"

Peter shrugged. "Just like the others."

"Not again!" El exclaimed. "You mean it disappeared too?"

Peter nodded and responded to the question on Neal's lips. "Don't worry. Diana said the photos will be ready to pick up on Monday. She was prepared for its disappearance and is taking particular care on the photography."

"Sweet potatoes?" El tried to hand Neal the bowl, but his mind was elsewhere. "Neal?"

He looked up and took the bowl. "Sorry. I was just thinking . . . the starfish . . . the ghasts . . . everything disappears. You've seen the ghast now too, Peter. Did the ghast disappear last night because of my amulet or would it have _poofed_ anyway? How do you study something that's so transitory?"

"I don't know," Peter said. "So far we only know of one other person who's seen them. The author of the _Necronomicon_ didn't mention if anyone else had witnessed ghasts. But we've made significant progress. Ghasts are no longer merely the stuff of legends and hallucinations but are real."

"And if we now assume that ghasts are real, does that imply that the other creatures and gods in the _Necronomicon_ are real as well?"

"We can't dismiss the possibility," he replied.

"But there may be other explanations," El countered. "I read a paper on medical uses for holographic technology. In the future we may be able to use holograms to display three-dimensional images of the brain. I wonder if something similar could have been used for the ghast, but of course that doesn't explain the soapstones which were clearly physical objects with mass and a well-defined structure . . . until, that is, they winked out."

"Mozzie believes a physical property causes them to be unstable in our world," Neal commented. "Something similar to antimatter perhaps, or extra dimensions. It couldn't be algolnium since Peter's artifact hasn't disappeared, unless the algolnium within it has different chemical properties."

"I talked with Cyrus today," El said, "and explained how your amulet glowed last night. He'd like you to bring it in tomorrow for him to examine."

Neal nodded. "He called me this afternoon. I'm meeting him and Mozzie tomorrow morning at nine in the lab."

Peter looked at El questioningly and she nodded. "We'd like to be there as well."

"It may be a long morning," Neal warned. "The tests could take a while."

"That's not a problem," Peter said. "It's Sunday. Both of our schedules are clear."

El refilled Neal's water glass. "Peter and I have tickets to the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young concert next weekend. Are you going?"

"I wasn't planning on it. It should be a great concert though."

"I haven't seen them perform since Woodstock," Peter said. "El has a couple of extra tickets. Would you like to join us?"

"We should call it a celebration for you having survived the attack so well," El added.

"Celebrate our victories while we can?" he said, breaking into a smile. "When you put it that way, how can I refuse? Thanks, guys."

"We have a fourth ticket," El added. "Would you like to invite anyone to come along?"

"Mozzie? At a rock concert?" Neal chuckled. "He refuses to listen to anything but classical music, and June will be gone that weekend. There's Travis . . . but it's hard to drag him away from the telescope at night."

Peter heaved an inner sigh. Was Neal being deliberately obtuse? "How about Sara?" he asked in as nonchalant a manner as he could muster.

Neal quickly shook his head, his eyes widening at the thought. "No, I'm not . . . I couldn't . . . She wouldn't be interested. Besides, she only likes jocks," he added emphatically as if that would put an end to it.

"Good," El declared. "Then she won't consider it a date. You're simply friends going to a concert."

Her logic didn't work with Neal. El liked to say Peter sounded like a bear, but Neal was giving a good imitation of an unhappy one himself. "Forget it. Better I don't go. I'm sure you have colleagues who'd love to attend or maybe your teaching assistants. I have a lot of work to do . . ."

"Don't be ridiculous," El said. "We invited you. We don't have to use the other ticket."

Neal agreed to join them at the concert, but retreated into his shell for the rest of dinner. El was clearly concerned about Neal's lack of appetite but her attempts to encourage him to eat were not very successful. Satchmo the thief sensed an opportunity and was hovering nearby. The way that dog was growing, there's no way it would poof out of existence.

They all carried their dishes into the kitchen, then El ordered them out, claiming they'd just be in the way. She suggested they have dessert in the living room after she'd cleaned up a bit. When Neal wasn't looking, she gave a nod to Peter in his direction.

Neal was standing by the door leading to the patio and looking up at the night sky like he wanted to fly away.

That wasn't about to happen but Peter could offer the next best thing. "It's a mild night. Let's go outside."

Neal readily agreed and Satchmo wouldn't be denied. Peter switched on the patio light. Neal sat down at the patio table and Peter joined him. The night was peaceful with few street sounds.

When Neal broke the silence, he spoke so softly Peter had to strain to hear. "I'm sorry about being a wet blanket on the concert. I still can't believe Kate's gone. I dream about her, think she's there beside me . . ." His words trailed off and he shook his head.

"We regret we made you so uncomfortable. It wasn't our intent."

"I know. I'm not ready to jump back into the dating scene, and I don't know when I will be."

He looked so miserable, Peter couldn't leave it like that. "You know, as Kate's advisor, I got to know her quite well and I can easily understand why you miss her so much. But Kate wouldn't have wanted you to be a hermit forever. Going out, even when you don't feel like it, may make it easier. Fake it first and then reality will follow."

"Right now, dating is the last thing on my mind. I don't even know if I'm human."

"Neal!"

He huffed with frustration. "Wouldn't you wonder if you were told you had some unknown element in your body? I can hear what Mozzie will say. He'll start calling me Starman."

"I doubt that."

"Trust me, he will." He hesitated for a moment. "When I was a kid and Mozzie heard I didn't know who my parents were, he dubbed me Perseus after the constellation. He invented stories about my parents being space aliens. All I wanted was to be a normal kid with regular parents."

How was he supposed to respond? Commiserate? Tell him to cowboy up? Neal had been given a raw deal when he was a child, and algolnium was opening up old wounds. Peter suspected he was already regretting he'd said so much. If Peter responded directly, Neal might feel even worse. "At the risk of sounding like Lavinia, what's _normal_ these days anyway? I'm not at Mozzie's level, but I keep up with the latest news in astronomy and what I hear is that you can call us all starmen. Comets may have initiated life on earth. So if Mozzie calls you Starman, you have lots of company. Your stardust may simply be a little different. It's like that Crosby, Stills, and Nash song—'Woodstock'—where they sing we're all stardust."

He acknowledged it with a smile, some of the tension leaving his face. "They're singing my song."

"Besides, you're not thinking of all the advantages algolnium may give you. Some of my favorite dig sites are in cold climates. Nepal, Tibet, Mongolia. Man, I could use some antifreeze in my veins."

He shrugged, not looking impressed. "I may not physically turn into an icicle, but I still feel the cold. I'm sticking exclusively to expeditions to warm climates—Egypt, the tropics. England perhaps, but only in the summer."

"And miss out on Viking ruins? You can't fool me—I know about your expertise in Old Norse. I was already making plans to go on a dig in Gotland with you."

Neal laughed. "El calls you a panda, but clearly polar bear is more appropriate."

"She told you that?" Peter groaned. "That was supposed to be a secret, but if it makes you laugh, it's worth it. I keep telling you, don't lose yourself in the personal stuff. Focus on the ghasts, not what's going on with you. What are they doing in our world? Who are they? You could be Earth's best defense against a ghast invasion."

Neal snorted. "A real life _Invasion of the Body Snatchers_?"

Peter glared at him. "Now who's not taking this seriously?"

"You're right. I've been trying to convince myself for so long they were simply a hallucination, I didn't let myself believe they might be real."

"Let's go inside. El must have dessert ready."

Neal nodded and stood up. Satchmo had been sitting quietly beside them, but as they rose the Lab bounded over to the wrought iron fence surrounding their patio and began barking.

"Quiet, Satch!" Peter ordered. He heard rustling sounds in the shrubbery. "It's probably a cat. Satchmo makes a good watchdog but sometimes he's overly zealous." Neal strode over to try to see what the Lab was barking at. "Find anything?"

Neal craned his neck as he checked out the shrubbery. "I caught a glimpse of something," he said after a moment. "It looked a lot like that animal I told you about last night."

"The tentacle-faced rat?" Peter strode over. "Is it still there?"

"No. Whatever it was it's gone now." He shrugged and turned away. "Probably just a rat. It had a hairless tail. Maybe it was a small possum. Satchmo's not barking. I must have imagined it." He glanced at Peter and winced. "Perhaps a vivid imagination is a side effect of algolnium? You may want to reconsider your request to let you know if I see any unicorns. They're probably not far off." Switching the subject he added, "I was sorry to hear about your brother. I didn't realize you had one."

"Understandable. I don't talk about him much."

"Do you have a photo?"

"Sure. Come inside and I'll show you." They returned to the living room and Peter retrieved a photo from his bedroom. "This was taken in Nam. He was standing by his Seawolf helicopter."

El set down slices of apple pie on the cocktail table. "Tom was only twenty when he was killed."

"You remind me a little of Tommy," Peter admitted. "He was an artist too. He hoped to become an architect." Peter studied the smiling kid in the photo. "He could have finished college first, but he went ahead and enlisted. If I'd been home, I would have tried to convince him to get his degree before serving. Dad served in World War II and put a lot of pressure on Tommy to prove himself. I think that's why he joined the Navy and volunteered for one of the most dangerous assignments they had." He paused a moment. The bitterness still rankled. "Suffice it to say Dad and I disagreed on Tommy enlisting."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After dessert Peter drove Neal home, despite his insistence he could walk. El could tell Neal felt awkward about accepting the ride, but that didn't match her embarrassment for how the evening had gone. She knew it had been too soon. Why had she gone along with telling a patient still recovering from a concussion that he had algolnium in his spinal fluid? Not her finest hour.

She could comfort herself Neal didn't have a panic attack like some would have in similar circumstances. But the lack of appetite, the distancing of himself? He was panicking, all right. He was simply doing his best to hide it from them.

Satchmo raced to the entry and began whining, alerting her of Peter's return. She greeted him at the door. "No ghasts or other unexpected encounters I hope?"

He chuckled and gave her a kiss. "No but Satchmo had a confrontation with a rat or possum in the yard tonight. Does that count?"

"I hope it was a possum. I don't like the thought of rats scurrying around our patio. Would you like a nightcap? I know I could use one."

"Good idea. You go ahead and sit down. I'll bring you a brandy."

El curled up on the couch and plumped the cushion behind her. "I don't imagine Neal will get much sleep tonight. I should have given him a sleeping pill."

Peter handed her a glass. "He'll be okay, hon. Stop worrying. You did the right thing to tell him. He's not thrilled about being Starman but he's coming to terms with it."

"Starman? Why are you calling him that?"

"Not me. Neal's convinced that Mozzie will give him that nickname. Starman is a comic book hero. He doesn't have the fame of Superman and Neal hopes he stays that way." Peter set down his beer. "Back rub?"

"Please." She relaxed into his strong fingers massaging her neck. "Does Neal believe he's part alien?"

"He's considering the possibility. I think the initial moment of panic is over, but we've moved from one mystery to another."

"I wonder if we should consult with Lavinia? She acts as if she understands much more about what's happening than any of us."

"You saw what she was like the night I found Neal in the church. She refused to provide any answers. I doubt that she'll be more forthcoming about algolnium. But I bet Neal will try, and he has a better chance with her than I would."

El turned to look at him. "I'm not so sure about that. You seem to have a rapport with her, which frankly, given her astonishing behavior that night, is quite remarkable. When I asked you about it, you put me off. Need I remind you that you're the one who's been advising me to be open with Neal? Isn't it time for you to do the same?"

He winced. "Masterfully argued, hon. I should have told you earlier, and I would have, but it concerns Tommy."

Now it made more sense. El met Peter after his brother had been killed, and that was the one subject Peter had a difficult time discussing with her. Peter had been away on a dig when Tom needed someone to balance the arguments his father was making for him to enlist. She suspected Peter blamed himself for not offering his brother more support. "I was proud of you for discussing Tom with Neal."

He shrugged. "Neal's a private person. He's had to be much more open with us than I'm sure he felt comfortable with. I felt I needed to do the same." He paused to take a breath. "When Tommy died I fell into what you probably would call depression, but I was too proud to admit it. I spent hours and hours conducting research in the library to prevent thinking about it. I see myself in what Neal's doing now—using his work to block out his grief."

"That's a common reaction," El commented, taking his hand. "You're being overly harsh on yourself. I wish I'd known you then."

He smiled. "I do too. You could have helped me through it. Instead I had Lavinia."

"Seriously?" she blurted, shocked.

"That's right. Lavinia invited me into her office, had me drink some of that same emerald-colored wine she gave Neal, and the next thing I knew I was talking to her about Tommy. It became an almost daily ritual. Somehow she enabled me to come to terms with his death, although I never understood exactly what she did. I expect she'll do the same for Neal."

"Lavinia is so brusque, it's hard to believe she could have provided the type of insights you needed."

"I know, but I've given up trying to figure her out. Shortly after I'd stopped seeing her, on March 10, 1971 to be precise, she called me up and told me I should attend a faculty cocktail party. She insisted that I talk with a certain Elizabeth Wayland. I hadn't planned to attend and will be eternally grateful to her for the suggestion. I might not have ever met you otherwise." He leaned over and kissed her.

"Next time I see her, I'm going to give her a hug," El promised.

"You have to make sure I'm present to see her look of shock." He glanced at his watch. "We better head for bed if we want to meet Neal tomorrow."

As they mounted the stairs, El paused. "Do you happen to know when Lavinia became head librarian?"

"I do as a matter of fact," he said, looking at her curiously. "There's a plaque in the library entranceway that lists all the head librarians and their dates. Lavinia was appointed in 1962. Cyrus and I discussed her appointment when we were telling Neal about the so-called 'vault madness' disease that killed Professor Tutledge. Lavinia moved here from England."

"1962," she repeated. "That was also the year Neal was found wandering the streets of Arkham as a child. A coincidence?"

He looked at her questioningly. "What are you suggesting?"

Her thoughts were too confused to give an adequate answer. "Lavinia knew about the amulet. She appears to take a special interest in Neal. Now I find out she also befriended you. She played a part in us meeting. You've drunk some of her emerald wine . . . Where does she acquire emerald wine? Is it even of this world? Before I'd heard of algolnium or ghasts or ruby crystals, I never would have asked these questions, but I am now." She studied his face anxiously. "Doesn't it make you wonder?"

"How she obtains her information? Of course, it does. But since that night she visited us after Neal's experience in the derelict church, she's slammed the door on both of us." Peter stopped to consider a moment. "You're suggesting there may be a connection between Neal's appearance on the streets of Arkham and Lavinia's arrival at Miskatonic. The only one who can answer that is Lavinia, but you've seen what she's like. If she doesn't want to talk about it, I can't make her."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Neal returned to the loft, he didn't attempt to go to bed. Instead, he sat outside on the terrace. His headache had returned with a vengeance, but the coolness of the outside air helped quiet it. The university offered a course in meditation. He should sign up for it.

Did he feel different? Not till he heard the news. Was this why he could see ghasts and could now enable others to see them as well? The only other man to his knowledge who'd seen ghasts was the author of the _Necronomicon_. Did he also have algolnium in his system? Abdul Alhazred, was called the mad scholar by his contemporaries. Would Neal's fate be the same? Arkham's famous crackpot?

Alhazred's end was not a happy one. He'd reportedly been seized by an invisible monster and devoured before witnesses. Was that monster a ghast?

Algolnium. Was it a gift or a curse? He didn't have enough information to decide. Perhaps algolnium would be like the foster home he'd been assigned to. He'd been thrilled to finally have a home, but that happiness only lasted until the first time Chad laid into him. He'd fled outside and hidden in the bushes for hours. Cold and miserable, he eventually looked up at the stars and began inventing his own constellations. He'd figured out a way to handle Chad. He'd do the same with algolnium.

Neal brushed aside those memories. The Pleiades were peeking over the buildings on the eastern horizon. Mozzie had said Celaeno was the name of one of the stars in that cluster. Neal had found only one reference to Celaeno in Shrewsbury's journal. The note was cryptic but tantalizing: _My dreams are haunted by Celaeno_. Was the answer revealed in one of the texts waiting to be translated in the Shrewsbury cabinet in the library vault?

He held out his hand and studied it for a moment. It looked the same. No weird glowing effect from the algolnium. Did he have any hidden powers? No x-ray vision so far, unfortunately. Invisibility? Possibly, if _poofing_ counted. He'd chalk invisibility up as a maybe. How about the ability to fly? Now that would be useful. He couldn't now, but El said the algolnium was growing. Maybe by Halloween he'd be zipping around Lavinia's turret. Neal chuckled and stood up. Having algolnium might not be so bad after all.

**Chemistry Lab, Derleth Hall of Science. September 28, 1975. Sunday morning.**

When Peter and El arrived at the lab, Cyrus was already in the midst of running tests. He looked up from his spectrometer and waved. "Help yourself to coffee and rolls. I'll join you shortly."

Neal and Mozzie had already spread out food and drinks on a lab table in a corner away from Cyrus's equipment. Neal had called Peter early that morning with the news that once Mozzie found out they were coming too, he wanted to make a party out of it. So it was Sunday brunch in the chem lab. Mozzie provided thermoses of coffee and bagels. El brought along fruit juice and scones.

"The donuts are my contribution," Neal said. "After Jones accused the shop of using LSD, I wanted to express my solidarity with the donut workers." He was smiling and looked relaxed. Apparently he'd come to terms with El's report.

Mozzie sprang up and gestured for El to sit beside him. "I have you to thank for finally proving what I've known for years. Did Neal tell you I used to call him Perseus, the Star Child?"

Neal sighed. "Help me out, El. Please tell him I'm not necessarily a space alien."

"Neal's right," she said. "I haven't tested you, Mozzie. You may have algolnium or something even more exotic in your spinal fluid."

His eyes widened with excitement. "How early can you schedule a test? I'm yours at whatever time you desire."

Neal turned to Mozzie and assumed a stern expression. "For the sake of confidentiality, we should restrain from any more talk of space aliens. Do you want the campus to be invaded by the U.S. Army? As you've so often told me, they're constantly on the lookout for UFO sightings and any evidence of invaders from space. They could lock me up in Area 51."

Cyrus came over and joined them. "The tests are proving my theory. Ever since I first detected algolnium in Peter's artifact, I've been studying its molecular structure. The breakthrough came when El provided me with a sample of Neal's spinal fluid. Fascinating substance, algolnium. It has many of the bonding characteristics of carbon. In Neal's case, it's combined with hydrogen and oxygen into a molecule I've tentatively named algoline."

"Apparently I'm not sensitive to the element when it forms a compound molecule," Neal added. "Cyrus tested me before you arrived and I was unable to detect the presence of algolnium in the fluid. So my usefulness as an algolnium sniffer is restricted only to the element in its pure form."

Mozzie patted him on the shoulder. "Don't be discouraged. Your status as the first example of an algolnium-based life form is secure."

El choked on the scone she'd been nibbling and took a hasty sip of orange juice. "Cyrus and I are by _no_ _means_ ready to admit to even the possibility of algolnium-based life forms. Neal is carbon-based just like the rest of us."

Mozzie shook his head as a father would to a confused child. "You'll understand in time."

El's face reddened. She seldom lost her temper, but she was on the verge of an eruption now. Peter could have warned Mozzie. _Never ever speak condescendingly to Elizabeth Wayland Gilman._

Electing to salvage the situation—and Mozzie so owed him for his action—Peter turned to Cyrus. "Have you been able to determine the type of metal Neal's amulet is made of?"

Cyrus nodded.

"Some bronze-based alloy I presume?"

"Not exactly." With those cryptic words, Cyrus excused himself. "I refuse to say anything more till my tests are complete. There are four of you—play bridge, Scrabble, or charades if you like but no more questions till I'm done."

They weren't reduced to Scrabble but it was a long hour of waiting. Not that it was without a side benefit. Mozzie took advantage of the opportunity to explain his theory of multiple universes coexisting and linked through wormholes. Peter had to give him credit for being able to explain extreme mathematics in layman's terms. When Cyrus eventually returned he had half a mind to make him wait for Mozzie to finish his presentation. But only half a mind.

Cyrus took center stage once more. His curly hair almost seemed electrified, although perhaps it was only because of the topic. The build-up had been so long, everyone was on the edge of their seats.

He held up Neal's amulet. "To _algoline_ , I add a new term— _algonite_. The metal in the amulet is a bronze alloy as we suspected, but a highly unusual one. It's composed of copper, trace amounts of gold and zinc and eighteen percent algolnium. The diamond-like gem in the center? It's an algolnium oxide similar to sapphire and of equivalent hardness."

No one said anything for a moment. All eyes turned to Neal to see how he was handling it. Peter was glad El had gone ahead and told Neal about the algolnium last night. It was better to discuss this in the open when he was surrounded by friends. Neal swallowed and cleared his throat. Surveying them, he raised an eyebrow. "Thoughts?"

Perhaps not the best idea to give Mozzie the floor, but the others weighed in too.

El was visibly shaken. "I've given credence to the idea that at an early stage in earth's history algolnium existed in a higher percentage and that perhaps other people have algolnium within their systems, but to create an ornament such as this requires a fairly advanced manufacturing technique." She looked to Peter for confirmation.

He nodded. "And there is no other known example of such an alloy on earth. The earliest known examples of faceting date back to around the fourteenth century." Peter turned to Cyrus. "Have you been able to date the amulet?"

He shook his head. "There's no carbon. To date it, I would have to destroy it, something none of us wants to do."

Mozzie was starting to speak, but Peter cut him off. "None of this proves the amulet wasn't made on earth, but the composition is certainly unlike anything we've found."

Mozzie glared at him. "If it quacks like a duck, it's not an owl. We have an object that reacts to a creature who no one is attempting to claim is from our planet. Why do you have such a difficult time in accepting the amulet is also extraterrestrial? I concede Neal may be a hybrid. Perhaps only one parent is alien. No one can deny the reasonableness of my hypothesis."

Peter glanced over at Neal to assess his reactions to the debate. He was not as easy to read as he used to be. He appeared intently curious but had also withdrawn himself from participating in the debate. Was this another instance of him putting up walls, a self-defense mechanism, or something else?

Peter, on the other hand, saw no reason to hold back. "We haven't considered a third option. An earlier advanced civilization on earth that disappeared before the earliest known civilizations. Everything we've discovered could be attributable to—"

"Atlantis or some other civilization?" Mozzie interrupted. "Possibly. Especially if you'll accept the likelihood of it having been seeded by extraterrestrials."

Cyrus helped himself to another bagel, spreading a lavish amount of cream cheese on it. "Why not mash together all of our theories?" He took his bagel and pressed the two halves together till the cream cheese squirted out the sides.

"What do you suggest?" Neal asked.

Cyrus scanned the group. "Here's my takeaway from the discussion. El, you believe that algolnium could have previously existed in greater quantities on earth. A worthwhile launching point. It could be similar to moissanite."

"What's moissanite?" she asked.

"An exceedingly rare mineral that is believed to have been deposited on earth by a meteorite. Only a few veins are known to exist. For algolnium, perhaps only one vein existed. If it were mined in early times, it could have been quickly depleted. We now take Peter's theory of an earlier civilization that existed sometime before 5,000 BC. They could have made Neal's pendant."

"Yes!" Mozzie exclaimed, yet again jumping in. "Algolnium may be rare on earth but not on another world or universe. Ghasts arrive on earth through a wormhole from a world where algolnium is more abundant. Peter's starfish artifact is stable because it was carved from soapstone found on earth by this earlier civilization. The starfish found on crime scenes, on the other hand, came from a different universe which makes them unstable like the ghasts who bring them."

Was that the solution? It answered many of the questions, and was the most reasonable hypothesis to date. They agreed to call it the A-Theory.

"No one else should know about the amulet," Mozzie said. "Agreed?" They all nodded. "If the government found out about it, they'd confiscate it." Mozzie didn't mention what the government might do to Neal if they found out. For once Peter was in complete agreement for the need for secrecy.

"I'd make one exception," Neal pointed out. "Lavinia. Although she probably already knows, not that she'd discuss it with me."

"Are you certain?" El asked. "She seemed relatively friendly with you at our house and appears to have your welfare at heart."

"That may be, but all my attempts to learn more about the amulet or ghasts or algolnium have been rebuffed so far. The last time I knocked at her office door, she ordered me to leave and stop pestering her. The only thing she said was that everything I needed to know was in the vault." Neal brushed a hand through his hair in obvious frustration. "No doubt written in one of the many languages I've yet to decipher. And you urge me not to spend much time there? How can I avoid it? If I'm ever going to discover the truth, don't I need to?"

 

* * *

 **_Notes_ ** _:  Neal assumes Lavinia won't provide any answers, but is he right? Find out next week in Chapter 4: A Zoog on His Shoulder when Lavinia seeks him out._

_Cyrus was correct in his comments about moissanite. It's a rare mineral which was originally known from only one meteor crater. A chemical analysis revealed an origin from outside the solar system._

_Thanks for reading and commenting! I'd like to wish all of you a joyous holiday with your family and friends. I've often referred to stargazing in Arkham Files and Caffrey Conversation. This week I wrote about it for my blog post. There's a holiday connection between Neal and the stars. If you don't remember what it is, the answer's in the post._

_Peter made many suggestions for this chapter and they're the subject of Diana's comment. She and I both have been enjoying tremendously Penna Nomen's new story, A Caffrey Christmas Carol, where she weaves the worlds of Arkham Files and Caffrey Conversation together and comes up with pure Christmas magic. Thank you, Penna!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Arkham Files board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	4. A Zoog on His Shoulder

**Miskatonic Library. September 28, 1975. Sunday afternoon.**

_Am I human?_

If anyone knew, Lavinia would. On his way to the library vault, Neal hesitated by the spiral staircase which led to her office in the turret. As he'd told the group at the chemistry lab, Lavinia had banished him and his questions from her office. Mozzie had once told him that Lavinia was the one person he never crossed and that Neal would be well-advised to do the same.

Deciding he didn't need her door slammed in his face yet again, Neal continued on his way to the vault.

By now he'd become well acquainted with all the guards who protected the library's treasures. In the weeks since he'd first gained admittance, most days he'd spent at least an hour there, with many days several hours at one stretch. Despite Peter's lectures and Cyrus's tales of vault madness, Neal was a skeptic of the need to restrict his hours. Since the materials couldn't be removed, he had no choice and nothing had happened to him.

Neal was the only person in the library's inner sanctum that day. The target for his research was the _Necronomicon_. It was the only book that contained any information about ghasts, but all it had was an illustration with a short physical description. The appendices possibly provided further details, but to read them Neal would first have to translate the language. The fifty-odd pages of text were written in an obscure variant of classical Arabic that so far had resisted his efforts to comprehend.

It was easy to lose track of the time. When Neal paused to take a break, he was surprised to see it was already past four o'clock. He stood up to pace around the room but the graceful arabesques of the appendix script continued to dance in front of his eyes. Not his intention.

He sat back down, but rather than resuming his work on the appendices, he decided to peruse the gallery of creatures the author had drawn. Neal used to consider them mythological beings but no longer. If ghasts were real, these other creatures could be too. Some resembled animals. Others—the Outer Gods or Great Old Ones Alhazred as called them—bore no similarity to anything on earth. Swirling balls of tentacles, multiple mouths and eyes, glowing spheres, amorphous blights. What universe could contain such monsters?

As Neal leafed through the pages, one face leaped out at him from a page covered with small illustrations of lesser creatures. Was this the animal he'd seen on the night of the attempted burglary and again outside Peter's patio? It was impossible to tell the size. It had a long hairless tail, a snout covered with tentacles, and small bright eyes. The body was heavier than that of rat, more like that a muskrat. The forepaws ended in long clawed fingers. Neal eagerly scanned the text. Alhazred must have described it somewhere. There was no commentary with the illustrations, but he hoped to find a reference somewhere else in the text.

In an obscure passage where the author recounted dream experiences, Neal found what he was looking for. _Zoog_. There was a second smaller sketch drawn in the margin which showed it standing upright on its hind legs like a wizened-faced monkey. Alhazred described zoogs as being furtive and cunning inhabitants of dark woods, but he'd also encountered them in the dark alleys of Damascus. The size varied from that of a rat to as large as a cat. Could a zoog exist in Arkham? Was that what he'd seen?

The sound of approaching footsteps interrupted his musings. The library vault was at the end of a narrow passageway which led from the rare book room. Usually the only sound that could be heard was the rustling of paper or the occasional cough of the guard. The sharp taps of quick strides echoed in the stillness of the library. Neal turned to look and was startled to see Lavinia approaching. She'd never visited the vault when he was there. She appeared to have coiled her long hair even higher on her head. The resemblance to a witch's hat was striking.

She thrust open the wrought-iron gate and strode into the vault. "Put your books away."

Lavinia had a deep, commanding voice which was difficult to disobey but Neal was determined to try. "I can't." His voice came out sounding more desperate than he'd intended. "I've only just begun."

Lavinia froze his protest and pulverized it into tiny chips of ice. "You arrived here at eleven o'clock. You've eaten no lunch. I'm hungry and I want company. Follow me."

Tea with Lavinia? Did that mean she'd actually talk to him? Answer his questions? Neal hastily gathered up his books and returned them to their shelves. Lavinia stood watching him with her arms crossed, her frown deepening with every minute that passed.

Once the Shrewsbury cabinet was again locked and his notes safely stowed in his briefcase, Lavinia whirled around and marched out of the vault. Neal followed her down the long corridor and up the narrow spiral staircase. He'd only entered her office on two occasions. The first was two years ago when she denied him access to the vault and the second was a couple of weeks ago. Peter had accompanied him then and she'd granted Neal vault privileges. Since then, Lavinia had refused him admittance. Why had she changed her mind?

She zipped up the staircase with an astonishing rapidity. Neal scrambled to keep up with those lace-up Oxford heels clicking noisily on the stone stairs. When they reached the heavy oak door of her office, she turned briefly to look at him, a half-smile ghosting on her lips. She reached into the pocket of her tweed skirt and pulled out a heavy iron key which she inserted into the lock.

Ordering him to take a seat at the table, she disappeared into the kitchen. Lavinia had no ordinary office. From the glimpses he'd seen through briefly opened doors, he knew she also had a small kitchen and sleeping quarters. It was in effect an apartment. Mozzie had a similar arrangement in the science building. It was a privilege the university granted to a few of its most valued faculty members.

Neal perched uneasily on the edge of one of the carved oak chairs. Surely she wasn't going to give him another test? He could hear the sharp clatter of plates in the kitchen and something else—a soft chittering coming from overhead. Neal gazed up to the ceiling. Peeking from behind the exposed beams of the turret were the same eyes he'd seen before. Large and golden, they blinked sleepily at him. Neal twisted his neck to get a better view.

"Do you like my friends?" Lavinia entered the room with a large tray containing a teapot, plate of sandwiches, and cups and plates. She placed the tray in the center of the tapestry-covered table.

Neal said he did. He couldn't understand why, but somehow he knew they were friendly.

"Good," she said, nodding her approval. "They like you. That's fortunate. You've no need to be concerned."

"What would happen if they didn't like me?"

"That's unimportant." She poured out tea for them. The aromatic blend brought back the smells of an Indonesian spice shop he'd visited in Oxford. He could identify ginger and cardamom, but there was something else, an elusive whiff he couldn't identify.

"Are they zoogs?" The chittering abruptly stopped at his words. When he glanced up, the eyes had receded into the highest part of the ceiling and were now barely visible.

Lavinia said nothing as she placed the sandwiches and plates on the table, but her face hardened into a frown. She sat down opposite him and crossed her arms on the table. "What do you know about zoogs?"

Neal told her of his encounters and his research. "Could I have seen zoogs?"

She didn't answer his question but gestured to the platter of small triangles. "Have a sandwich." Neal sighed. History was repeating itself. Lavinia only answered the questions she wished to and clearly she intended to once more leave him in the dark.

Lavinia had used a dark multigrain bread for the sandwiches. They were filled with a toffee-colored paste and thinly sliced cucumbers. He picked one up and nibbled it gingerly. The taste was not bad. Rather nutty.

"I made the pâté myself," she said proudly.

"Does it have walnuts in it?"

Lavinia had a sip of tea rather than answer his question. After a moment she said, "You have no reason to fear being in this chamber. Your friends in the rafters are not zoogs." She glanced up at them and gave a soft chittering call which sounded identical to theirs. Neal heard faint scratching sounds and the eyes grew larger as they once more descended to a lower beam, but the dim recesses of the turret were too dark to distinguish what kind of bodies they had. "I doubt you saw a zoog. Your imagination was playing tricks on you. But if you see one, avoid it."

"Do they come from the same world as ghasts? How dangerous are they?"

She snorted. "Anything can be dangerous. Books are the most dangerous of all." She considered him a moment. "Zoogs live in the shadows—dense woods and undergrowth. They have not been seen in our world for many centuries. If you see one, let me know. From your report, I'm inclined to agree with Peter. You were still suffering the effects of your concussion."

Neal couldn't believe she was actually divulging something useful. His brain exploded with questions he wanted to ask her before she once more shut him out. "My amulet may have caused a ghast to disappear in a column of smoke. Is that what happened?"

She nodded. "He was disintegrated."

"Do you know where the amulet was made and how I obtained it?"

She frowned. "So many questions you have." Pursing her lips, she added, "Why are you asking these things now?"

Neal told her about the algolnium within him and the amulet. "Mozzie thinks at least one of my parents was an extraterrestrial. Is he right?"

"The element inside you will not harm you. Be satisfied with that." She pointed to his plate. "You need to eat."

Neal took another bite. The pâté adhered to his throat. It didn't exactly choke him, but it had an odd clinging presence that was rather creepy. Like a spider web.

Lavinia studied him while he ate. "Your mind is full of questions, but the answers are in the vault, not with me." She showed no inclination to give any further explanation. As if to echo Neal's frustration, the chittering of the animals in the rafters became louder.

Lavinia glanced upwards and gave a sharp bark of a laugh. "Oh, very well. If you insist." She switched her steely gaze onto Neal. "Mozzie speaks of wormholes. There is much wisdom in that man."

"I found a passage in Laban Shrewsbury's journal. He says his dreams are haunted by Celaeno. What does that mean?"

"Aren't your dreams haunted?"

"Am I dreaming of Celaeno?"

"You'll know when you're ready." Neal had grown to hate those words. How often had she used them with him?

" _When_ will I be ready?" he demanded.

"When you can read the crystal manuscript." Neal was dismayed at her answer. That slab of crystal had embedded within it a bronze-colored three-dimensional script of staggering complexity. With nothing to go on, he hadn't a clue on how to attempt a translation. If he needed to wait till he could read the manuscript, he would never learn the answers to his questions.

"Until then don't pester me," she continued. "But don't think you can spend your life in the vault. Effective immediately, all visits to the vault will be limited to four hours maximum. The guards will be informed. There will be no exceptions."

"Is vault madness real?"

"You place yourself in grave danger by staying there too long. You're not—"

"—ready?" he mocked.

Her lips twisted into a half-smile as she nodded. The chittering in the rafters had stopped. Lavinia dismissed him a few minutes later and instructed him to go home. When Neal looked at his watch, he was astonished to see that it was already eight o'clock. He'd spent over three hours with her, but it only seemed like a thirty-minute break. He'd eaten three of her sandwiches and felt no need for anything else. He would feel more comfortable if he'd known what it was he'd eaten.

Neal stayed close to the street lamps on the way home. He'd never been afraid of the dark, but he found himself listening intently for any sounds in the bushes. He'd seen plenty of rats and possums in Arkham, and the animal he'd spotted was neither. But Lavinia believed he was mistaken. He hoped she was right. When he got home, he called Peter and told him what he'd learned. Peter said Satchmo had barked several times that evening and scratched the door to go outside, but Peter never saw anything. He promised to visit the vault with Neal the next day and look at the illustration. Neal had done all he could. Would that be enough?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Lavinia stood at the doorway and watched the boy descend the staircase. She'd lectured him to go home and rest, but she doubted it would do him much good. Should she go ahead and tell him what had happened to Thaddeus in the vault? But how could she when she was uncertain about the role it had played? Neal would only have more questions.

As it was, he suspected far more than she'd anticipated. The assistance Neal was receiving was undoubtedly the cause.

A curious phenomenon. Peter, yes. He was performing as expected, but his wife? Cyrus? How much credence would they give to Mozzie's theories and what would the repercussions be?

She withdrew into the kitchen and rummaged through her cupboard. Finally she found the jar she sought behind a tea canister. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed the jade-green powder. Collected last summer and still fragrant with the night-blossoms of Merope. She'd been away for too long. For a moment her thoughts returned to the lush forests.

She prepared the infusion and poured it into the porcelain basin. Carrying it into the office, she placed it on the table and sat down before it. Lowering her head, she breathed in the fragrance . . .

"Yes, what is it?" Phineas demanded petulantly. "Your timing is, as usual, abysmal. Now where did that Purple Honeycreeper fly to?" Phineas's shape slowly emerged in the steaming liquid. What was that absurd outfit he was wearing? A safari suit? Where had he acquired such an immense hat? He looked even more ridiculous than normal. She heard the high-pitched shrieks of tamarins in the background.

"You're in the rainforest, I assume?"

"I told you I'd be spending September in the Amazon. What's so vital that you must interrupt my studies?"

"Your interference is what forces me to. Need I spell it out for you? When you planted those visions of Abydos, the bookstore, and the Nautical Shop, you set events in motion much faster than we'd agreed to. The boy isn't ready. He's too young to be tested."

"I had no choice. Once Azathoth discovered the wormhole in Arkham, we had to move. If I hadn't acted, Neal wouldn't have sought out Peter, he wouldn't have been exposed to the artifact, and Azathoth would now have the armillary sphere. At least now we have a fighting chance."

"But a slim one. Neal's being assisted by his colleagues as we expected, but at a much faster rate. Already they know about the element. They call it algolnium."

"What a curious name! Not a bad choice, though. Who named it?"

"Neal. Now that he's being exposed to the artifact, the algolnium is strengthening as we knew it would. But will his body be able to tolerate it? That's a big unknown. He's also begun questioning his origin. I don't know how long I can hold him off."

"This presents a new wrinkle I admit, but we can adjust. A little faith in me, please. You were the one who nearly ruined everything with that foster home."

"That wasn't my fault," she protested sharply. "No one could expect me to learn about the bizarre practices of humans so quickly. You were the one who abandoned him."

"Let's not fight over old mistakes. In the end it's worked out. The companions we've chosen are performing up to expectations. We knew we could only set the stage. Soon it will be up to them. The boy wears the amulet I assume?"

"He wasn't before, but he is now. The amulet may protect him against ghasts, but it could also lead to his destruction. Now that he's killed one, Azathoth's bound to hear of it."

"Unlikely," Phineas scoffed, dismissing her concerns. "Who would carry the message?"

"Neal believes he saw a zoog on Friday night." She related the circumstances. "He may have remembered the drawing of the zoog from the _Necronomicon_ and simply imagined it, but I doubt it."

"Go away!" He swatted at something on his nose. "Not you, Lavinia. Have the zoogs entered into an alliance with Azathoth? If the boy's right, the situation is more urgent than we realized. Ghasts have no ability to communicate. But zoogs . . . If they're acting as spies for Azathoth, we stand at the precipice. Even though Azathoth can't enter this world, he may not need to. With the help of the zoogs he could acquire everything he requires. Couldn't you see into Neal's mind to see if his memory was accurate?"

She shook her head. It was galling to have to admit her limitations. "Now that the algolnium is stronger, it blocks my attempts. Although your ability is much greater than mine, you may also find yourself frustrated. You know what this could lead to."

"We understood it was only matter of time till Azathoth calls him again. But without the armillary sphere, he is unlikely to make a move. I assume it's safe?"

"For the moment. Mozzie has it."

He chuckled. "That's the first bit of good news I've heard in a while. It will be more secure with him than in the vault. I'll begin making preparations."

"See that you do. Neither one of us wants the misfortune that befell his advisor Thaddeus to happen to Neal."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Chad leaned against the side of a parked van. On a Sunday evening, Birch Street was deserted. No light inside the boarded-up house. It was eight o'clock. Keller must already be inside.

No traffic. No one walking his dog. No one to see him. He crossed the street and strolled up to the front door. As expected, Keller had left the front door unlocked.

He climbed the three flights of stairs to the back room. Dust was thick on the steps. Mixed in with the footprints were the same claw marks he'd noticed earlier. When he'd asked Keller about them, his only comment had been a snarky laugh. Probably rats, but by the size of the prints they must be huge. He thought back on the large one he'd spotted a few nights ago at Sharkey's. Was Arkham being overrun by a new breed of supersized vermin?

Chad paused before opening the door. Something about the room always gave him the creeps. The glow coming from under the door alerted him Keller was already there. Shaking off his nerves, he walked in.

Keller was standing by the table. What was that on his shoulder? A rat? All he could he see was the back and its long bare tail. It was about the size of a monkey. When he first met Keller, he'd wanted to nickname him Ratso. He hadn't known how appropriate that was. He knew Keller liked to hide in the sewers, but a rat for a pet?

It looked like it was whispering in Keller's ear, but upon Chad's arrival, it turned to stare at him. Chad jumped back, letting out a curse. Yellow eyes locked on him, but they weren't what made his stomach turn. Were those worms? Tentacles? Whatever they were, they covered its snout.

"What's the matter?" Keller rasped. "You don't like my friend?"

"What is that thing?"

"This is a zoog. You should like him. He's the one who supplies us with the moon-tree wine you're so fond of." The zoog fluttered in his ear. "He wants you to approach."

Chad swallowed and stepped closer. The zoog jumped on his shoulder. Chad prided himself on being scared of nothing, but this? He tried not to flinch as the zoog nibbled his ear.

"Ow!" He tossed the zoog off and felt his ear which was bleeding profusely. "That piece of vermin chomped on my ear!"

The zoog scurried back up his leg and onto his shoulder.

"Stop your bellyaching and don't insult him. So what if zoogs want a little something in return for their moon-tree wine? It's a small price to pay. Listen up. We got new instructions. We're not to hit the Nautical Shop again. The cops may be watching it. We're to focus on increasing the ranks for the next crime spree. We'll meet back here on Wednesday evening, at nine o'clock."

"Recruiting's gone well. I have several novitiates ready to join." The zoog was breathing in his ear. Its fur felt coarse and harsh on Chad's skin. Its breath reeked of fish. Was that what it lived on when there were no ears to mutilate?

"You're doing well, acolyte. Keep that up and you'll be ready for the next step."

"And more moon-tree wine?"

"We can't leave it alone, can we?" he said with a smirk. "We'll drink to our new members after the ceremony."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On Monday morning Neal stopped off at the police station to retrieve a photo of the starfish. He wasn't surprised that Diana didn't refer to ghasts in her report. It was enough to know she believed him.

But that didn't mean she let off on the pressure. Every time she saw him, she demanded to know if he'd able been able to decipher the script. Neal wondered what Diana had been like in college. Had she driven her professors crazy too? Fortunately he didn't have any Dianas in his classes.

Not that his students weren't demanding. Neal had set aside Tuesday afternoon to meet with them but he might have to extend that to a second day. He'd asked Peter how to handle the pressure of overwrought students, and Peter had lectured him on being too soft on them. _Coddling_ was his word for it. Peter warned him to establish limits or he could be overwhelmed.

When Tuesday afternoon arrived, Neal was braced for the onslaught. He'd announced a strict five-minute limit for each student. Last week had been a disaster. He'd wound up staying into the evening simply to see everyone in line. He'd bought a sand timer for his desk. That seemed friendlier than having to constantly glance at his watch. His tiny office barely had the room for an additional chair. Already he could hear the footsteps and chatter outside his door. The students formed a blur of colorful shapes through the frosted glass panel.

Time to release the hounds. He opened the door and welcomed the first student, trying not to be dismayed at the long line waiting to see him. Did they all have to be women?

. . .

In retrospect, the timer might not have been a good idea. Each student insisted on staying till the last grain of sand had fallen. He'd put it away after the first thirty minutes. Neal brushed the hair off his forehead, letting out his frustration in a long, satisfyingly noisy exhale. The last woman he'd had to dismiss early. Never again would he assign Anglo-Saxon love poetry to a group of female students.

He stood up to stretch his legs and cast a quick glance through his porthole of a window, suppressing the sudden impulse to bolt through it. Realistically, he'd never fit. If only he could _poof_ his way free . . . Why couldn't algolnium have given him something useful like the ability to disappear at will rather than simply being able to go on polar expeditions with Peter?

He heard the door open and composed his features into a welcoming smile.

"I didn't know if I was going to be able to see you or not. What a horde!"

Neal spun around, his smile turning into a grin. "Sara, good to see you! You mean you've been waiting outside all this time?"

She nodded. "I suspect you'll be relieved to hear I was the last one in line. Your ordeal is almost over." She took a seat, looking amused. She was wearing a turquoise turtleneck and plaid skirt, looking very much like one of the students. "It was quite an education."

Neal sat down at his desk. "I imagine it was. You never studied Anglo-Saxon, did you?"

She dissolved into laughter. "You think that's what they were talking about?"

"Sure. That's why they were coming to see me—to discuss their coursework."

Sara rolled her eyes at him. "They were far more interested in making poetry with you. You really are clueless, aren't you?"

"You mean they weren't picturing Beowulf in front of them?"

"Hmmm. 'His blue eyes, an ocean of love, set my heart on fire' seemed to be a common line. I see that grin on your face. You're pulling my leg."

"I'm not quite as naive as you seem to believe. Any tips on how to get them to focus on their assignments instead of on me?"

"Find a girlfriend," she said promptly. "Then they'll know you're already spoken for and they'll lay off."

"That's not happening. I'll just pile on their assignments so they won't have time for anything else."

"Good luck with that." She studied him a moment. Neal recognized that look. Something devious was coming. "You know you don't really have to acquire a girlfriend. You could fake it."

"Con them? I'm not sure that's the proper way for a teacher to treat his students."

She gave a sly smile. "Could be fun. I bet you'd make a great con man if you'd just loosen up a bit. You had me going for a minute. Let me know if you decide to try."

"Are you offering to be my fake girlfriend?"

Sara paused to consider. "I don't have any prospects at the moment. Why not?"

"You're not pining after any jocks?"

"I'm in between. We could always break up if one came along. Why don't we take the idea on a test drive? We could go the coffeehouse on Friday night."

Peter had said he should fake it. Sara was willing to go along. Neal hesitated for only a second before making up his mind. "I have something even better. Peter has a couple of extra tickets for the Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young concert this Saturday. If you don't have anything better to do, would you like to come?"

Her eyes danced at the prospect. "Are you kidding? I'd love it."

"This is just friends going to a concert. Nothing else," he reminded her.

She made a face. "Jeez, you really know how to take the fun out of fake dates. How are we going to convince your students? Would a little hand-holding kill you?"

He laughed. "I suppose I could manage that. Was this why you came to see me? To ask me out to the coffeehouse?"

"Not quite. I want to interview you. I figured if I called to set up an appointment, you'd probably make an excuse like you always do and duck out."

He winced. "Sorry. I didn't—"

"Forget it," she said, dismissing his lame excuse before he could make it. "I realize you were simply too bashful to ask me out on a fake date."

"Wait a minute. Before you start casting aspersions, I'd like to—"

She raised an eyebrow. "Give it up as a lost cause. No wonder I always rejected your advances."

"Oh, really? What advances would those be?" Neal glared at her, exasperated. Was she deliberately trying to be annoying?

She grinned. "Our first fight and we haven't even had our first fake date. Oh, I'm going to enjoy this." She pulled out her notebook. "If you don't want me to bring up the reprehensible state of your dating skills, you'll need to fill me in on what happened at The Nautical Shop."

So that was her game. Trying to weasel information out of him? Not so fast, sister. "You undoubtedly read the police report. I don't have anything to add."

"I read it all right. How's your head? The report said you suffered a concussion."

"You probably think I plan to use it as an excuse for not asking you out."

Sara shot him a quick glance. "Believe it or not, I actually am concerned that my fake date doesn't keel over before we ever have that date."

"It's fine, thanks, but seriously, I don't have anything I can add. The police believe it was an attempted burglary. Peter and I happened to walk by and got mixed up in it. End of story."

"That seems to happen to you two a lot. This is, what, the second incident in two weeks? Or are there even more that I don't know about?" Sara tapped with her pen impatiently on her notepad. "Perhaps I should start following you around and see who attacks you next. At least that way, I won't be shut out."

"Even if I knew more, I couldn't tell you. You've met Detective Diana Briscoe. I'm not getting on her wrong side."

She sighed. "She'd probably spit you out in tiny pieces if you said anything, but she doesn't scare me."

"Tough girl, huh?"

"Oh yeah. I'm going undercover next week. I should get some tats I suppose."

Neal frowned in disapproval. "No tats, please. My fake dates don't have tats. What are you investigating?"

"So now you're the one with questions?" She grinned. "I'll be generous and answer yours. Then you'll see how it's done. There are rumors of gang activity on the waterfront. I plan to write an expose—my first. I'm going to work as a bartender at Sharkey's."

"You're not! It's in one of the worst sections of town. Your paper is constantly carrying stories about crimes near the wharves."

"That's why I want to work there. Have you forgotten all the hours of jiu jitsu I put in at Miskatonic? I can take care of myself." She stood up. "But I'm touched, honestly."

Neal rose too. "I thought you took all those martial arts classes to protect yourself from the jocks you were dating."

"Ha, ha. See ya around, Carter. Let me know what time and where we'll meet for that fake date." Sara opened the door a crack and peered around the frame. "The coast is clear. You better scram while you can."

After she left, Neal sat down to put away his papers. Was this what it was like to have a sister? An annoyance and a worry. Why did she have to pick the waterfront district for her exposé?

He reached for the phone to call Peter. They better not have given away that fourth ticket.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Luckily, Peter and El hadn't given away the ticket, and Neal appreciated that Peter restrained himself to a minimal amount of teasing. He gave himself high marks for having handled it so well, passing it off as simply friends going to a concert together, which of course it was. When he and Peter walked to lunch the next day, Peter didn't even bring it up.

It had quickly become a tradition for them to meet Mozzie for a late lunch on Wednesday afternoons once classes were over. Cyrus joined them when he was free.

On this Wednesday it was just the three of them. As usual, Mozzie insisted on the Sentinel Alehouse. The booths were comfortable and gave a measure of privacy, but Mozzie had another motive. Neal had been eating meatloaf at the establishment when he had a vision of Seth Whateley being murdered at the bookstore. Mozzie hypothesized a connection to meatloaf despite all of Neal's objections that his visions didn't work that way.

"Just this once, let me pick the halibut instead," Neal pleaded. "You could call it a control experiment."

Mozzie considered his suggestion for a moment. "An intriguing concept that the wormhole which manifested itself in your meatloaf has moved on to another dish. Quantum theory points out the difficulty of assigning any precise location on the quantum level. What if a singularity was affecting the meatloaf wormhole?"

"Does that mean I can order the halibut?" Mozzie paused just long enough for him to add, "I'm taking that as a yes, and please don't stare at me the whole time I'm eating it. It's creepy."

After Joanie took their orders, Mozzie said, "Cyrus and I went by the Nautical Shop yesterday evening and conducted readings designed to detect any unusual radiation or other anomalies. The results were all negative."

"You're keeping that armillary sphere safe, I hope," Peter said. "Diana mentioned that if you'd like to keep it in the police vault—"

"Oh sure, so it could disappear with a _poof_ along with all the soapstone starfish." Mozzie shook his head emphatically. "It will be much more secure with me. I count it as one of the most profound disappointments of my life that I missed out on seeing the ghast on Friday. I shall not rest, and nor shall Starman until I see a ghast with my own eyes."

"Please don't call me that," Neal objected with a sigh.

Mozzie stared at him. "Why not? That's a badge of honor. Have you even read the Starman comics?"

"I've been a little busy. Not much time for comic books."

"Well, you should have taken time. I'll correct that. Starman was a brilliant astronomer and inventor. You would do well to emulate him."

Peter snorted. "You realize that description sounds much more appropriate for you? Are you secretly Arkham's astronomer crime fighter?"

"You mock me, but I'm not the one supercharged with algolnium. Neal is and it's time for him to assume his destiny."

With a sigh, Neal buried his face in his hands.

Mozzie didn't let up. He tapped him on the shoulder. "Embrace your heritage. I'm envious."

"What does this new appearance of a ghast signify to you?" Peter asked, providing a welcome diversion.

"It adds additional weight to my theory that ghasts are making use of a wormhole to travel between parallel universes. Their molecular structure is sufficiently unstable to prevent them from manifesting themselves for very long. I suspect the algolnium in their body chemistry is affected by Neal's." Mozzie slapped the table with excitement. "What if ghasts are composed not of the algolnium in Neal, but a heavier version with extra protons? Yes that could cause spontaneous  . . ." Mozzie whipped out a pen and scribbled onto his napkin.

They continued to debate wormholes and parallel universes during lunch. Mozzie preferred to order spaghetti and meatballs because he liked to construct 5-D objects out of his spaghetti noodles. He claimed that Calabi-Yau manifolds were best illustrated by noodles dipped in marinara sauce. Mozzie was currently working on something he called M-theory which would unify all versions of superstring theory. M-Theory, as Mozzie reminded him, was not to be confused with their A-Theory speculations in Cyrus's lab over the weekend. The science behind M-Theory was beyond Neal's level to comprehend, but he enjoyed hearing Mozzie expound on it. It made Neal's own goal to decipher the starfish language seem more achievable.

Peter had uncovered more information about the Plateau of Leng in an obscure nineteenth century text, _Unaussprechliche Kulte_ by von Junzt. The eccentric German philosopher had made a study of secret societies throughout the world. Von Junzt wrote about a Mongolian sect who mentioned a monastery of ice on top of the plateau. "According to the account, the monastery was guarded by immense birds called shantaks," Peter said.

"Perhaps that was what Neal saw flying around the church steeple," Mozzie mused.

Neal turned to Peter. "Did von Junzt describe them?"

"Supposedly shantaks are dull-red in color with short stubby tails."

"That doesn't sound like what I saw," Neal said, disappointed. "The creature at the church was gray and possessed a long whip-like tail."

"Keep an eye to the sky," Mozzie admonished. "You may have another sighting."

Neal decided not to mention that lately he was paying more attention to what might be lurking behind bushes than anything circling overhead. "Have you and Travis discovered anything about the armillary sphere?"

"I'm glad you asked. Caleb told me he'd found it in an antique store in Providence but didn't know anything about its history. When I researched it in the vault, I found a copy of the same treatise which had been stolen from Hiram Whateley's bookstore. It has a detailed illustration of a device which is identical to our sphere and claims it was once owned by Heinrich Agrippa. Agrippa was an occult philosopher and astrologer in the fifteenth century. He was rumored to be an alchemist. I don't agree with everything he wrote, of course. He argued for the theological and moral superiority of women over men—something I find highly suspect—but his works on the occult were seminal in our understanding of magic and demons."

Peter looked at him, startled. "You don't actually believe in magic, do you?"

"Man's science of today would have been called magic in the Middle Ages. El probably would have been burnt as a witch for her skills as a doctor." Mozzie pointed his pasta-laden fork at Peter. "Those ghasts would have been called demons in the Middle Ages. Minions of Satan."

Peter considered Mozzie's words. "I see no reason to bring witches and demons into the discussion."

Mozzie shrugged. "Would you prefer extraterrestrials? Gods from Outer Space? You can't deny the linkage." He moved his plate aside and reached for a cocktail napkin. "You interrupted before I could tell you the most interesting part. Travis discovered a small symbol which was engraved on the underneath side of the band depicting the celestial longitude." He pulled out his fountain pen and carefully drew a design on the napkin which he then passed to Peter.

Peter stared at it, swallowing his bite of meatloaf in an audible gulp. Neal reached for the napkin to see what he'd drawn. "It's a starfish!"

He beamed. "Precisely, and not just any starfish but one identical to one of the glyphs on the starfish and on the potsherds Peter has unearthed.

"The arms have the same  distinctive tadpole tails . . . " Peter looked up. "How large was it?"

"A half-inch. We used a magnifying glass to make sure we were viewing it accurately. That the starfish is on an object owned by Agrippa has far-reaching consequences. This symbol could be the origin of the pentagram. Agrippa was one of those who pointed out its significance."

Their lunches always proceeded in a similar manner. They started on one topic which then led to widely divergent areas of speculation. As they walked back to the university from the alehouse, they continued to discuss the significance of the starfish symbol on the armillary sphere. What was the link between it and a glyph found on ancient carvings?

The starfish glyph was without parallel in cuneiform or hieroglyphics. Neal suspected it was meant not to convey a sound but a meaning. On one of the pottery fragments Peter had shown him, it could be taken as a seal, perhaps to establish ownership. But that was as far as Neal had gotten. He was beginning to see starfish wherever he looked. . . .

"Neal, you're not paying attention," Mozzie complained. "Did you hear what I just said?"

"Sorry." Mozzie was right. He'd been distracted, unsettled. Had there been something wrong with the halibut? No, not the halibut. He knew this sensation. Neal stopped to scan the people on the street.

"What's wrong?" Peter asked in an undertone.

About twenty feet away behind him, Neal spotted his quarry. The man was tall and lean to the point of being cadaverous—a fitting attribute. He wore a lumberjack flannel shirt in a faded red-plaid over a turtleneck, making him easy to identify. He'd passed them a few minutes ago. Neal jerked his head in the man's direction and whispered, "The guy in the red flannel shirt? He's a ghast."

"How can you tell?" Mozzie whispered back.

"I can sense the ghast within him. When I look at him, it's as if a light flickers on every few seconds to reveal his true form."

"He looks normal," Peter said. "Perhaps because it's daylight? The _Necronomicon_ mentioned that ghasts can't tolerate bright light. He may have to keep his ghast identity hidden within his host."

They reversed direction to follow the ghast. Trinity Avenue was crowded with pedestrians. Hopefully he hadn't spotted them. He gave no indication that he was aware of them.

"Notice that book he's carrying," Mozzie whispered excitedly. "What's a workman doing with that?"

Mozzie was right. The book appeared ancient—a large thick volume bound in black leather and embossed with gold. It looked like it belonged in the library vault, not being carried carelessly under someone's arm.

The ghast was heading down Trinity Avenue away from the university campus. Neal had never tailed anyone, human or ghast. Should he be reading a newspaper while he walked? Obviously there'd been some deficiencies in his education. "Have you ever tailed someone?" he asked Peter.

"Never, and why are we following him? Shouldn't we be calling Diana instead?"

"Oh, sure," Mozzie jeered. "Tell her what? Neal just saw a ghast? We have no proof. Besides, if you stop to call, we'll lose him. I don't see any phone booth around here. You'd have to go into a store and lose precious minutes. But go ahead if you want. Neal and I'll follow him."

"Oh no, you're not," Peter retorted. "You wouldn't think twice about leading Neal straight into danger. Someone needs to be a voice of reason."

"Hey, I can take care of myself," Neal huffed, "and we'll lose him if we just stand here arguing." He saw the ghast turn the corner to go up Birch Street, a road which led uphill and out of town.

"Follow me," Mozzie muttered. "I know what I'm doing." Mozzie proceeded to dart from storefront to storefront, hiding behind phone booths, pedestrians, even street lamps, occasionally stopping to read a display. Although he and Peter copied his movements, Neal felt more than a little foolish. Calling Diana was beginning to sound like a terrific idea.

"Where'd he learn this stuff?" Peter muttered to Neal when they'd paused behind a VW bus.

"I'm not sure. From watching TV?"

The ghast continued striding briskly up the hill. The houses were all old rambling Victorian structures, many in need of repair. A few near Trinity Avenue had been taken over by fraternities.

After several blocks, their quarry stopped at a large 3-story house and turned onto the front walk. Neal stood behind a delivery truck with Peter and Mozzie as they waited to see what he'd do next.

The house was in a dilapidated condition with many of the windows boarded up. What windows could be seen had broken panes or were missing glass altogether. Unkempt shrubbery surrounded the place. Long ago it must have been an elegant residence. Wrought-iron finials were on the dormer windows which adorned the mansard roof. A small belvedere was perched on the roof like a top hat. The few sickly trees in front had already shed most of their leaves.

Lumberjack-ghast paused at the front door and fished into his pocket. Pulling out a key, he inserted it into the lock and went inside.

"What do we do now, Kojak?" Peter asked.

"Obviously, we can't go in. What we need to do is case the joint," Mozzie replied. "Did either of you bring a pair of binoculars?"

"Gosh, no. I didn't realize I'd be conducting surveillance on a lumberjack-ghast," Neal said. "Next time I'll remember."

"Don't beat yourself up," he said, completely missing his sarcasm. "It's a common novice mistake. You'll do better next time. And from now on, just so you know, you're welcome to order halibut in addition to meatloaf."

"Guys, we need to focus," Peter said. "We should notify the police."

"And tell the fuzz what exactly? That a ghast entered an abandoned building. Your new best friend, Lady Cop, will love that. No, what we need to do is come back at night. If there are no lights on, we'll know no one is inside. Then we search it for clues and then, and only then, do we inform the fuzz."

Mozzie's penchant for outdated slang had taken on a new robustness over the past few weeks.

"We're not in a Keystone Cops movie," Peter scolded. "You haven't seen a ghast, but I have and we don't have any business confronting one by ourselves in the dark."

"What will happen if you call the coppers? The ghast looks like a regular person. You'll lose all your credibility."

"Guys, quiet. He's leaving," Neal said. Their quarry had exited with another man, shorter, wearing an old pea jacket. They walked over to an old Plymouth sedan parked in front of the house and drove off. As the car passed them, they checked for the license plate, but it was so covered in mud, they couldn't read it.

"I don't think the other man was a ghast," Neal said. "I wasn't able to study him for very long but I wasn't sensing anything."

"What time should we meet tonight?" Mozzie asked.

Peter glared at him. "Weren't you listening to me? We need to inform Diana. We shouldn't attempt anything on our own."

"Answer me this, since you're apparently such an expert on the law. How, pray tell, will Diana be able to acquire a warrant? What evidence can she provide? I've researched the legality of searches, and I know coppers can't enter one's home—pawing through one's treasures—without strong evidence."

"Something you no doubt have plenty of experience with from your years with the antiwar movement. How many times were you arrested?"

"I wear those arrests as a badge of honor," Mozzie retorted hotly.

"Can we stop fighting the Vietnam War a moment to decide what to do?" Neal pleaded. "Folks will wonder why we're standing behind this truck."

"I'll be here at eight o'clock tonight," Mozzie declared. "Who wants to join me?"

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: I hope you will! I'll post Chapter 5: The House on Birch Street next Wednesday._

_The book Peter mentioned, Unassprechliche Kulte, appeared in several Lovecraft stories. Its author, Friedrich Wilhelm von Junzt, met a gruesome fate in a locked room. The account is in "The Black Stone," a short story by Robert Howard. The secrets of the locked room in the house on Birch Street are about to be revealed._

_Lavinia warned Neal of the danger of books. In the world of Lovecraft there are many dreaded tomes. I wrote about some of them as well as the library for this week's blog post, "The Locked Vault." On a more festive note, Penna's post is about holidays in Caffrey Conversation. I'm grateful for her taking time out from her wonderful story, A Caffrey Christmas Carol, to help me with this chapter. Having her and all of you visit me in Arkham has made this holiday a fantastic experience. Thank you!_

_M-Theory was first announced by Edward Witten in 1995. Witten was vague as to the meaning of "M," saying it could refer to magic, mystery, or membrane. He didn't deny that it could also refer to Mozzie._

_Kojak was a popular crime show which was currently being shown on TV and featured a colorful police lieutenant named Theo Kojak._

_Diana drew inspiration from the fake date Neal and Sara took in The Mirror when she wrote the scene between Neal and Sara in this chapter. She told me that Neal has been complaining about the length of time his counterpart spends in the vault. He compares it to a certain location at White Collar. Her response is in this week's comment._

_Happy New Year, Everyone!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	5. The House on Birch Street

**October 1, 1975. Wednesday evening.**

"I may be here, but I'm doing this out of protest," Peter grumbled as they drove off from June's house. "It was bad timing that Diana wasn't at work when I called. We should have spoken with her first."

Mozzie grimaced. "Who knows what valuable evidence would be destroyed if we wait?"

The three of them had met at eight o'clock. Neal had never broken into a place before. Was he going in as a cat burglar or a spy? What was the appropriate look for his first foray into the unexplored territory of clandestine reconnaissance? Leonard Nimoy on _Mission Impossible_ was a good role model, so Neal opted for a black turtleneck and pants. Mozzie was wearing a worn leather jacket and a baseball cap. Peter also wore jeans and a jacket.

Neal felt a rush of excitement as they pulled away from the curb in Mozzie's Hornet Sportabout. Peter was fretting about the consequences. He seemed determined to play the adult. When they arrived at the abandoned house on Birch Street, Mozzie parked across the street behind a station wagon. They'd all brought binoculars and spent a few minutes scanning the windows for any sign of activity. No lights were on.

"The coast is clear," Mozzie announced gleefully. Neal was quickly acquiring a picture of what Mozzie the activist was like.

"How will we get in?" Peter asked uneasily. "Break a window?"

"Have you no finesse?" Mozzie chided, wincing. "Don't tell me this is your first time to sneak into a place." He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a small tool.

Curious, Neal stared at it. "Is that a lock pick?"

He nodded. "One of many I have. I'll go first and give you a signal when you can approach."

"What kind of signal?" Peter demanded as they got out and crouched behind the car.

"I'll hoot like an owl."

"Why would an owl hoot by the front door of a house?" Neal asked. "Couldn't you just give a tug to the brim of your cap?"

Ignoring him, Mozzie stood up and strolled toward the front door of the house, whistling a tune as he walked. Peter watched the street nervously, probably looking for police cars. "How I let him talk us into this, I'll never understand."

Mozzie knocked on the front door then casually leaned against it, with his right side next to the door knob. Was he using the lock pick? If so, he was very good at it. Neal craned his neck to get a better look.

Peter's frown deepened. "I saw a phone booth down the street. You wait here and I'll try Diana—"

"He's waving to us! He must have decided to save the owl hoot." Neal took off and after a second, Peter tossed aside caution and joined him in a dash for the door.

Their leader scanned the street as they approached. "No fuzz around. Quick before someone drives by." When Peter started to put his hand to the door knob, Mozzie jerked it away. "Gloves!" he hissed in an angry whisper.

Mozzie had reminded them to bring gloves when they finalized their plans. Neal hastily pulled out a pair and slipped them on. His first break-in and he'd almost committed the rookie mistake.

Peter opened the door. It creaked ominously, freezing them all in place. They waited anxiously, listening intently for any sound. The wind had strengthened and was blowing through the broken window panes, causing the house to groan and rattle. Gusts echoed through the rooms. The sense of adventure was gone. What had been exhilaration was now tense anticipation. Neal couldn't define why precisely, but the house didn't simply feel creepy. It was evil.

Neal shuddered as the feeling grew stronger when they walked inside. Was someone or something lurking within? He had the strong impression they were being watched.

He glanced over at the others. They didn't appear to sense it. Just his imagination. Neal took a deep breath to calm his nerves. No one was waiting in the dark.

Peter nudged him. "Any visions?"

Neal shook his head. Mozzie had switched on his flashlight and was exploring the front hallway. They got out their flashlights and followed him. The rooms on the ground floor were empty of furniture. Layers of dust everywhere. Gigantic cobwebs stretching from the ceiling to the wood plank floor seemed designed to ensnare them. Unbidden, the image of Shelob, guardian of Cirith Ungol sprang to his mind. As a teenager he'd been fascinated by the _Lord of the Rings_ and had drawn illustrations of that monstrous spider. Now he wished he hadn't.

A scattering of footprints in the rooms could be detected in the dust. Prints of small clawed feet. Rats most likely. Or zoogs. Neal looked around for eyes but didn't see anything. Was that a faint scurrying or were his ears playing tricks on him?

Even more disturbing were the imprints of large clawed paws and long slithering tails. Judging by the length of the stride, the animals must be about five feet tall, but they could have been much taller. They appeared to walk upright. The tails, if tails they were, appeared to be hairless. One print was particularly disturbing. Were those spines? Neal pointed them out to Peter and asked for his opinion. Although the house appeared to be empty they were keeping their voices low.

"I don't know what kind of animal could have made it. The animal must either be built very low to the ground or have a very long tail."

Mozzie urged them forward. "We don't want to dally. Zoology lessons can wait. Unless"—he cast a sharp glance at Neal—"Were they made by your ghast?"

"Don't call that thing mine, and no, they couldn't have been. Ghasts don't have tails and their legs end in hooves, more like a deer than anything else I suppose."

"I've been looking for hoof prints," Peter said. "So far I haven't seen any."

"The stairs are covered with footprints. We may find them there. Follow me!" Mozzie darted ahead to the staircase and began sneaking upstairs. Neal adopted his furtive crouch, although he felt self-conscious about it. He felt better when he saw Peter was also sneaking. The atmosphere was getting to him too.

A few faded photographs of people wearing old-fashioned clothes hung on the walls. Some of the portraits appeared to date back to the nineteenth century. The wallpaper was so coated with grime, it was difficult to recognize the original design. The staircase must have once been elegant. The baluster and handrails had been carved to resemble tree branches with acorns for the newels.

There were a few claw prints of varying sizes on the stairs. No hoof prints. Neal relaxed a bit until he remembered that any ghast hidden within a man wouldn't have left telltale prints.

The rooms on the second floor were also empty. Neal stopped at one window to scan the street below.

"See anything?" Peter asked.

"I don't think so. For just a moment I thought I saw a dark shape but it disappeared."

Mozzie was urging them to continue. "Only one floor to go."

They returned to the staircase. Peter shone his flashlight up the stairs onto the third floor. The face of an animal peeking around the corner was illuminated briefly in the light. Peter gasped and put a hand on Neal's arm. "Was that what you saw Saturday night?"

"This time there's no doubt! That had to be a zoog." Neal stared at the spot, hoping to see it again. "It looked just like the illustration in the _Necronomicon_."

Mozzie's face flushed with excitement. "My first space alien! A momentous day. Neal, my boy, you've made my dreams come true."

"How dangerous did Lavinia say zoogs were?" Peter asked uneasily.

"She didn't. She tried to convince me I hadn't seen one."

"That alien didn't look that scary," Mozzie said, pushing past Peter. "It's probably terrified of us and is now hiding in a corner. There'll be no talk of leaving till we've thoroughly cased out the top floor." He ran up the stairs.

"Case out?" repeated Peter, raising a brow. "Was Mozzie a burglar in a former life?"

"He became addicted to _It Takes a Thief_ when it was on the air. He used to study Robert Wagner's every move. He said cosmologists and thieves have much in common. That may have been when he learned how to pick locks." Neal paused before continuing up the stairs. "How do you want to handle it? Do you think we should leave?"

He hesitated, frowning. "I don't like it, but Mozzie will refuse to go with us. If we should succeed in finding the zoog, we can chase it into a room, shut the door, and return with the police."

On the third floor they fanned out in different directions to speed up the search. The rooms Neal checked were as empty as the ones on the lower floor. Neal scanned high and low with his flashlight but could find no trace of the zoog. Could it climb walls? Or did it simply _poof_ away like the soapstone starfish? The zoog seemed smaller than the one on Saturday night, but his memory may have been faulty.

Mozzie called out from the end of the hallway. "I found a locked room! Ergo, something important must be inside."

"No _ergo's_ allowed," Peter said firmly as they joined Mozzie in the back. "We didn't find the zoog. It's time to leave."

But Mozzie ignored him. Pulling out his lock pick, he had the door open in a few seconds. Plainly knowing how to use a lock pick was an essential skill Neal had neglected. How difficult could it be? If Mozzie wanted him to stare into that armillary sphere again, he'd have to fork over some lock-picking lessons first.

Peter scowled but walked through the open door into the space beyond. Neal followed close behind. When they entered the room, a soft thud was heard on the staircase.

"That may be the zoog!" Mozzie scurried off to check, urging them to continue their investigation.

The room was about twice the size of the others. It was papered in faded crimson damask with only a few traces of the original vibrant colors still evident. The room had been visited frequently from the number of footprints on the floor. The lone window in the room had all its panes intact. No furniture except for a card table which had been set up in the center of the room. On the table was the book they'd seen the ghast carry into the house.

_Slam!_

Neal jumped at the sound of the door closing. A gust of wind must have blown it shut. Would he be able to hear Mozzie behind a closed door? Neal didn't want to take the risk and  strode over to open it. When he turned the door handle, the knob spun uselessly in his grasp. Neal pushed on the door while turning the knob, but the door wouldn't budge.

"Here, let me help." Peter knelt down to work on the knob. After a minute he shook his head. "It's come loose. Mozzie will need to open it from the other side."

They called out to Mozzie, but when he returned, his efforts to open the door were also fruitless. The door was sealed fast.

"Why won't it open?" Neal demanded, frustrated.

"I don't know!" Mozzie yelled back, sounding equally upset. "It worked easily the first time, but now it's jammed."

"I don't want to be stuck in here all night," Peter warned. "Do something!"

"I _am_ doing something but I can't get it open."

Neal ran to the window. The view was discouraging. "We're up too high to jump, and there's no ledge we could stand on. If there were curtains, we could make a rope, but there aren't any."

"This isn't an Errol Flynn movie," Peter said impatiently. "In the real world no one uses curtains for a ladder."

"It's a moot point since we don't have any." Neal returned to the door. "Still nothing, Mozz?"

"Stand back," Peter ordered. "I'll break the door down." He hurled himself against the door, but the door was too strong. Just their luck. In a decrepit house with everything rotting and decayed, they were stuck behind the one solid piece of wood in the house.

Neal lent his weight and together they attacked the door. Mozzie even tried on his side. But all they had to show for it were several bruised shoulders.

"You'll have to go to the police," Peter told Mozzie, rubbing his arm. "Tell them to come rescue us."

"Me? I can't go to the police! I'll become a cog in their system."

Peter exhaled slowly, apparently counting to ten. "Stop thinking of the cops as the bad guys. They're our friends and we need them. You got us into this mess. Now it's your obligation to get us out."

"Your pal Diana won't be there. It's late at night. You want me to accost strangers about what happened? I'd sooner fly to Jupiter than do that."

"Wait a minute. I think I have a solution," Neal reached into his pocket for his wallet. He opened it, hoping he'd still find it there and exhaled in relief when he pulled out her business card. "Diana gave me her home telephone number, instructing me only to call her in emergencies. This qualifies. Do you have a pen?"

"Hold on. I think so," Neal could hear fumbling sounds through the door. "Okay, give me the number."

Neal read it off to him and Mozzie promised to call from the nearest pay phone. They heard his footsteps rapidly fade away.

Peter grimaced. "This is the last time I ever let him talk me into doing something."

Neal wasn't about to defend him, not now. Peter would cool off later. Probably. "As long as we're stuck here, we might as well look around."

Peter nodded. "Let's start with the book on that table."

Ever since he'd entered the room, Neal had felt himself drawn to the ancient book even as he dreaded approaching it. At first the crisis of being locked in suppressed any other thoughts, but now the feeling could no longer be denied. The wind whistled through chinks in the window frame, sounding eerily reminiscent of the ebony pipe played by the yellow-masked priest on the frozen Plateau of Leng.

He shuddered and glanced over at Peter who was already studying the cover. He didn't seem to notice the wind. Neal swallowed down the fear bubbling up inside. What was wrong with him? It was just a book, wasn't it?

He strode forward, willing himself to ignore the ghostly whispers emanating from the tome. Peter pointed to a word embossed into the cover in a flowing script. The strokes glinted faintly. "Do you know what this says?"

"Azathoth." Although he spoke in a low voice, the name appeared to reverberate through the chamber.

Peter looked at him with surprise. "Azathoth? That's not the way it's written in the _Necronomicon_."

"This is the script of the appendices. It's one of the few words I've been able to decipher so far." Neal bent over the book to examine it more closely. "The leather binding appears at least as ancient as the _Necronomicon_."

Peter nodded. "We're not leaving without that book. It cries out to be analyzed."

Neal glanced at him sharply. Surely Peter used the term figuratively. "You don't hear any voices, do you?"

"From the book?" Peter started to laugh then stopped when he saw Neal's expression. "You do?"

"Must be nerves … or the wind. Forget it." Although he attempted to make Peter dismiss it, Neal knew he wouldn't. What was it Lavinia had said? Books were more dangerous than zoogs, than ghasts, than anything else. Did she have this book in mind? The words of the priest on the Plateau of Leng echoed in his head. _You will come again when I call_.

He steeled himself to watch as Peter opened the book. The cover was surprisingly heavy as if the book were resisting its efforts to be opened. The paper appeared to be a type of parchment. The frontispiece had one large illustration which covered almost the entire page. A rounded mass of writhing tentacles and in the center one large eye. It looked vaguely human but there was something off about it. As Neal studied it more closely, he realized the pupil was not perfectly round but was drawn with five cone-shaped hooks.

Slowly the tentacles began to pulsate. The eye locked on him, its hooks extending outward and upward . . .

"Stop it. Now!" Peter gave a rough shake to his shoulder.

Neal stepped away, disoriented. The room was shifting around him. "What happened?"

"You were starting to sway." Peter was eyeing him with concern. "Were you having a vision?"

Wiping his brow, Neal slowed down his breathing. He slanted a wary glance at the illustration. It now looked quite ordinary. "Sorry, the atmosphere must have been getting to me. My imagination went haywire for a moment."

"Do you need to sit down?"

"No, I'm fine."

"You don't look it," Peter said bluntly. "What did you see?"

"For a moment the eye in that illustration appeared to come alive. The pupil had hooks . . ." His words trailed off, and he forced out a chuckle. "Crazy stuff. Pay it no mind."

Peter frowned and stared at the image. "It doesn't have that effect on me, but if it starts to happen again, let me know about it."

Neal nodded absently. "Is it just me or does this drawing look like one of the illustrations for Azathoth in the _Necronomicon_?"

"I noticed the resemblance as well, and did you notice the mark just below the bottom tentacles?" Peter pointed to it with his finger.

Neal focused on the book again. Underneath the drawing—he dared not stare into the drawing itself—was a small glyph—the symbol of a starfish with tadpole-like appendages. "I've seen that same symbol on the soapstone carvings!"

He nodded. "And on the pottery fragment from Abydos and the brass armillary sphere."

"Is this the symbol for Azathoth?"

"It's hard not to believe that's the case."

Neal was dumbfounded by the implication. What were they saying? That the artisan who made Peter's artifact knew about Azathoth? Was the god being worshipped in those ancient times?

Peter turned to the next page. The parchment was filled with a list of words—names perhaps—written in large scrawls and apparently in blood because of the dark carmine color of what was used for ink.

Peter and he were both speaking in hushed tones, although Neal didn't know why. Who was around to hear them?

Neal watched Peter slowly leaf through the pages. There were altogether well over two hundred pages which contained writing and about half as many left blank at the back of the book. The earliest page was written in hieratic—the cursive script of ancient Egypt. Subsequent pages had Greek, Arabic, Chinese, Sanskrit, Cyrillic, Old Norse runes . . . There was even a page in Anglo-Saxon. Each line contained only a few words and was apparently written by a different hand.

Neal turned to the last page which was written in English. They both studied it. "The book must be used as form of registration," Peter remarked. "Apparently people signing up for a secret society or a cult."

"I agree. These are obviously assumed names: _Lies With Rats_ , _Raven's Claw_ , _Black Shark_."

"We're not that far from campus. If we only had this one page to go on, I'd suspect it was part of a fraternity hazing ritual," Peter mused. "A few years ago the university had to clamp down on abusive hazing practices. But all these different languages, especially the ancient ones . . ." He shook his head.

"A hazing ritual for a Mensa fraternity?"

Peter chuckled. "Do you belong to Mensa?"

Neal shook his head.

"You surprise me. Surely you'd qualify."

"At Oxford they tried to persuade me to join, but I wasn't interested. The Linguistics Society was all I could manage." Neal stopped to listen. "What was that?"

Peter had heard it too. The sound of a car pulling up. Neal sighed in relief. Diana must have arrived.

Peter strode to the window and looked out, studying the street below. "Trouble!" he hissed. "Three men are walking up the front walk and they're not police."

Neal joined him at the window. A pickup pulled up and parked behind the first vehicle. The two figures who got out both wore black robes. Their heads were concealed within hoods, one of which was yellow. Was he the priest in the yellow silk mask from the Plateau of Leng? The robe looked different but Neal didn't take that as a reassuring sign.

Peter gripped his shoulder. "The front door is unlocked. They may suspect someone's here." Already they could already hear footsteps on the staircase. "Our best course will be to bluff our way out." He pulled out his wallet from his pants pocket and began rifling through it.

"What are you doing? The door's jammed. We should be okay."

"I wouldn't count on it. Follow my lead," Peter ordered. "Look official. Take out an ID card to flash. Just make sure your fingers cover most of it."

A key was heard turning in the lock. Neal watched the knob turn. His heart dropped when the door slowly creaked open. Why couldn't Mozzie get it open? Were there other forces at work?

Five men entered. Three looked like dockworkers with pea jackets, scruffy beards, and stocking caps, but Neal ignored them. The two robed figures had hooded masks completely covering their faces. Now that Neal could see the robes clearly, he could tell they were of inferior quality to the one worn by the priest on the plateau. The robes lacked the intricate calligraphy and the material appeared to be a cheap cotton.

The priest with the yellow hood quickly pulled out a gun from a pocket in his robe. "Come here to spy, did you?" His voice was harsh and insolent.

"We have every right to be here," Peter bluffed. "We're with the city inspection department." He flashed his American Archaeological Society card in front of their faces. "What business do you have in a locked up-building?"

Neal followed suit with his Miskatonic ID card and imitated Diana's scowl. They were less than impressed.

The yellow-masked priest ordered them to sit on the floor in the northeast corner of the room with their backs to each other and their hands between their legs. Handing his gun to the other priest, he added, "Shoot them if they even twitch." He turned to the others. "You're in luck, boys. It's not many novitiates who are privileged to see the ceremony you're about to witness." He stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

Peter's back was pressed against Neal's and he could feel Peter taking deep breaths. Was he preparing to make a move? Neal tensed his muscles to follow his lead. But before Peter could do anything, the priest returned.

He was carrying a plain wooden box about two feet long and one foot wide. The box had a four-inch round hole cut in one side. He set it down next to the book on the table then turned to face the wall on the west side of the room. Chanting in a tongue which was reminiscent of Semitic, he waved his hand in front of it.

In an instant the wall was transformed into a ruby crystal similar to the one Neal had seen in the church but of monstrous proportions. The crystal extended from the floor almost to the ceiling with an equally wide spread. Neal heard Peter choke back an exclamation as the dockworkers also gasped.

Neal stared into the crystal. The same faint sound of that accursed ebony flute came from within the heart of the crystal. In the church he'd seen shadowy dancing figures. His eyes pierced through layer upon layer of glowing vermilion facets. . . .

Peter's back shoved hard into him. Neal realized he'd been leaning forward to the point of collapse. He righted himself and pressed back against Peter.

"You were warned!" barked the black-masked priest and jabbed the gun to Neal's forehead. His voice was pitched low like he was deliberately distorting it.

"Keep 'em alive," the other priest called out. "Their time's coming." He turned to the three men who were now standing huddled together, their mouths gaped open. "Welcome to the world of Azathoth, my brothers. The path of pure enlightenment and riches await you. The world will soon know and fear you as you bask in the glory that is Azathoth. Are you ready to take your place at his side?"

They nodded mutely.

"You'd been asked to choose your new names. Now you must prove your allegiance by signing the _Book of Azathoth_." He commanded them to come forward and place their writing hand in the box. "No matter what you feel, you must leave your hand inside the box for fifteen seconds. Only then will you be deemed worthy."

The first man stepped up and inserted his hand nervously into the box. A second later he blanched and let out a sharp gasp. The priest was there to hold his arm firmly in place. The man looked frozen with fright, his arm shaking convulsively. At the end of the allotted time, the priest allowed him to retract his hand. Neal could see his index finger was bleeding. The priest squeezed out a pool of blood onto a dish and dipped a quill into it, which he then gave to the novitiate, instructing him to sign his new name in the book. At the end of the ordeal, the novitiate appeared to be dazed but not in pain.

The priest repeated the process with the two other men.

At the end of the ritual, he bowed low before them. "Welcome, novitiates. Now you will experience the full power of Azathoth." He removed his satin sash and walked over to the crystal, where he flung the sash directly at it. The sash gave a sharp pop and exploded into flames. Turning back to the novitiates, he said, "That's what happens with a sash. Guess what happens when a man strikes the crystal." He beckoned to the men to follow him.

Standing in front of Neal and Peter, he ordered them onto their feet.

With the gun directed on them, they had no choice but comply. Neal kept listening for the sounds of a police siren, but there was nothing. They were prodded to stand immediately in front of the crystal. The black-masked priest whispered something to his fellow priest who nodded in agreement.

He pointed the gun at Neal. "You can go willingly or we toss you in. Your choice."

Peter was staring at him, shaking his head. But Neal had entered the crystal in the church and survived. This time he had the amulet on. If he disappeared, they might be satisfied and release Peter. He shook off the priest's arms and started to walk toward the wall when the priest gave him a hard shove directly into the crystal. As Neal staggered, Peter grabbed him.

"Stop!" Peter shouted.

But he was too late. Like a gigantic magnet, the crystal sucked Neal in and Peter with him.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Once more Neal was engulfed in a vortex as the wall dissolved into a dizzying whirlpool of colors beyond space and time. He spun in a nauseating spiral for what seemed to be hours before being ejected onto a hard surface. Wheezing, Neal quickly scrambled to his hands and knees. The cold stone floor underneath him swam and shimmered as if seen through a carnival mirror. The air was so frigid it burned his lungs.

He was not alone.

In the center of the vast chamber Peter lay outstretched. He was lying on his back seemingly unconscious. Crouching over him was a creature some ten feet long with huge membranous wings. Its rubbery skin was a ghostly gray in color. The beast had a long prehensile barbed tail. Was this a dragon? The same creature Neal had seen flying around the spire of St. Jude's?

All the characteristics fit. It appeared unaware of Neal's arrival. As Neal crept forward, it raised its tail high into the air where it hovered for a moment. A cobra poised to strike …

Neal shouted, hoping to startle it, and leaped on its back. The dragon made not a sound but writhed and twisted to fling him off. Its tail lashed backwards, grazing Peter's neck. Neal wrapped his arms tightly around its neck, but its skin was slick and treacherous. With a great flapping of its wings, the dragon took off and flew toward the ceiling. Neal could feel the muscles in its neck throb as it attempted to jerk free from Neal's grasp.

The ceiling was high overhead. They were in a square tower perhaps a hundred feet high. At the very top there was a small skylight. The creature was far too large to squeeze through, but that appeared to be exactly its intent. It stretched out its neck, aiming for the skylight. Neal's hands were sliding off. Already he was dangling from its neck, being tossed helplessly back and forth.

No longer able to hold on, Neal's fingers slipped as the dragon crashed through the opening with a loud snap of splintered wood.

This was it. The end.

Or not.

Instead of plummeting to the ground, Neal was a leaf drifting lazily downward. Or was it that time itself had slowed?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter gradually became aware of his surroundings. What had happened to his neck? It felt on fire. He pressed his hand to the spot and hissed. Burn most likely. The floor felt cold and damp. The sound of flapping wings overhead.

He looked up. What monstrosity was that? A dragon? And dangling from its neck—Neal!

They were in a tower and the creature was heading for the skylight.

"No!" Peter yelled, staggering up. He stood below the creature, powerless to do anything to stop it. Neal was barely clinging on. He was up far too high. He'd never survive a fall. 

Then the unthinkable happened. Neal lost his grip. But instead of crashing to the ground, he drifted slowly downward as if he were a feather.

What the hell?

Peter stretched out his arms, hoping to break his fall, but Neal was able to twist himself into position and land upright. For a second he simply stared shocked at Peter and then glanced up at the ceiling, his mouth dropping open.

Figuring out what happened could wait. Peter crushed him in a hug, and for a long moment they simply clung to each other. Peter found himself gripping him tighter than he should, not that Neal complained. They were both still alive. They were real. As for the rest . . .

Neal pulled back to observe his neck. "That gash. How painful is it?"

"Forget about it. It's unimportant. How did you do that?"

"I don't know." He forced out a tired smile. "Maybe I'm Leafman, not Starman? It could have been the algolnium."

"Or your amulet?"

Neal pulled it out from under his turtleneck. It wasn't glowing. It gave no indication of having helped him survive.

"I'd noticed the time just before we passed through the crystal and it was 9:30." Peter glanced back at his watch to make sure he remembered correctly. "Now it reads 9:00. We've gone backwards in time. The laws of physics don't seem to work. Are we even on Earth?"

"If we are, it's the North Pole." Neal wrapped his arms around his body, shivering in the frigid air. Peter slapped his own arms in an attempt to maintain heat. "Did you see the dragon?"

"Was that what it was?" His neck began to throb painfully. He touched it gingerly. It was oozing slightly.

"I don't know what else to call it." Neal studied the wound. "There's no blood, but the skin is inflamed and swollen. Blisters are forming. Do you want me to wrap it?"

"It feels like a burn. Since it's not bleeding, it's better to leave it in the open air." He gave a reassuring smile to calm Neal's anxious look. "The cold will act as an anesthetic."

"Then it's worth freezing. That wound is what the dragon's tail did to you. When I came through the vortex, it was leaning over you. I tried to distract it and jumped on its back to drag it away. That's when it took off."

"I don't remember any of that. The first thing I saw was you riding it up to the skylight."

With the dragon gone, at least for the moment, they had their first real opportunity to examine the chamber. There was no door. The walls were made of massive stone blocks which fit together with no apparent binding to hold them in place in a construction technique reminiscent of the Machu Picchu Indians. On one wall was a round opening about four feet in diameter. It was filled with turbulent gas which occasionally set off crackling sparks of phosphorescence. The vortex through which they'd come. The only other openings were one small window on one of the walls and the skylight high overhead.

"What's wrong? Neal, you've got that look in your eyes."

"Algolnium. There's algolnium around here. It's faint but present." His eyes darted around the space. There was a faint greenish glow given off from the walls, but visibility was poor. Neal headed for one corner of the chamber. "Found it. A soapstone starfish and with all five arms intact!"

This was the first unbroken one Peter had ever seen. He studied it carefully.

"The amount of algolnium is about the same as the ones at the crime scenes," Neal said. He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook and pen. While Peter held the starfish for him, he drew the glyphs.

Afterward Peter wrapped a handkerchief around it and placed it in his pocket. "Any idea of where we are?"

Neal shook his head. "I've never seen this place in any of my visions." He walked toward the one window and Peter followed him. The window was small, barely wide enough for both of them to look through it at the same time. There was no glass to keep the icy air from entering the tower.

Surrounding them was a cratered world of jagged snow-topped mountains and ash-covered pits. No trees. No buildings. In the distance a volcano belched plumes of smoke. It was a land of fire and ice unlike any Peter had ever seen. Shooting stars slashed across the dark sky. The moon was visible, but loomed at least ten times larger than it should. Peter gasped when he saw a second smaller moon to its right. He'd already suspected it, but here was the confirmation. They were not on Earth.

Neal pointed to a plateau to the right. "I think that may be Leng!"

"And emerging from behind the plateau . . . Are those shantaks?" Peter watched as five birds flapped high into the sky with slow sweeps of their immense wings and began circling the plateau. Their bodies resembled reddish parchment. The wings were so thin, they appeared translucent. The heads seemed disproportionately large for their bodies. They reminded Peter of pterodactyls except that their wings were much wider, more like bats. And even at a distance they appeared enormous.

The plateau stood by itself on a plain. A vast mountain range extended beyond it in the distance. Neal blinked his eyes repeatedly. The temperature was making his eyes water. Peter's were as well. "You remember I said the monastery was encircled by tall tusk-like pillars? I think I see them."

Peter focused on the top of the plateau. There was a low hump that might be the monastery and encircling it were columns of some sort. Their stark shapes appeared like the ribcage of a leviathan's carcass.

Was this the parallel universe Mozzie had theorized? Despite the arctic conditions, they were both too fascinated to leave the window. What lay beyond the mountain range? Was the entire world like this? For a brief moment, they cast aside thoughts of their own desperate situation to speculate about the planet.

A faint scratching sound, coming from high overhead, pulled Peter's attention back to the tower. He turned away from the window to look up into the rafters. Out of the skylight were pouring dozens of rats.

No, not rats.

Neal saw them too. "Zoogs!" he exclaimed.

Peter stared at them. Now he could make out the tentacles on their faces. About the size of large squirrels, they were scurrying down the wall, making insane fluttering sounds.

Neal looked around wild-eyed. "We can't stay here! There are too many of them."

"Where do we go? If we reenter the wormhole, we don't know where we'll come out. The next world could be worse." The zoogs were now a seemingly unending tidal surge. Soon they'd be upon them.

"We have no choice. We have to enter the vortex!" Neal grasped his arm. "Hurry! Hold onto me so we don't get separated."

Peter took a deep breath. "All right, Sundance, let's do this."

Neal locked arms with him and they plunged into the vortex.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

The turbulence was as bad as the first time. Neal looked to his right where Peter should be. He could see nothing but he could feel Peter's arms in his grasp. Neal attempted to call out but the words forming in his mind had no way to get out. He tried to shut his mind to the gnawing mouths he felt on his limbs. Just an illusion. They weren't real. They couldn't be . . .

Finally they were coughed onto something solid. For a long moment, Neal lay on the ground, breathing heavily. Peter was lying next to him. There were no sounds. Wherever they were, they appeared to be alone.

Neal opened his eyes. They were back in the locked room. Peter still had his eyes closed but was conscious. He groaned and moved his arm, his face drained of color. Did Neal look the same?

"Did we make it?" Peter mumbled.

"Yeah, we're back where we started. The thugs are gone. The book too." Peter sat up, rubbing his head. Neal looked at him anxiously. "Do you remember anything of the journey?"

"No, worse luck," he said.

"I wouldn't say that. It's better that way."

Peter cast him a sharp look. "You stayed conscious, didn't you?"

Neal nodded and helped him up. Peter didn't appear to have suffered any ill effects from his ordeal. In fact, just the opposite.

"What are you staring at?" Peter asked uneasily.

"Your neck. The gash has disappeared. Can you still feel it?"

Peter probed the area where the wound had been with his fingers. "No, there's no pain. It's as if the wound never existed." He shook his head in bewilderment. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know, but I'm glad it did."

Peter reached inside his pocket and pulled out the starfish. When he unwrapped it, he discovered two of its arms were missing. 

"It's just like the others," Neal noted. "There must be something about entering our world that causes fragments to break off."

Peter felt in his pocket. "I can't find any pieces. They must have fallen out."

"That's one possibility," Neal muttered, not caring to speculate on the others. He remembered all too well the sensation of being gnawed.

A crackling sound rent the air. Neal spun around just in time to see the vortex close and vanish.

"If that had happened a couple of minutes earlier …"  Peter murmured.

They stood for a moment simply staring at the blank wall. "You know no one will believe what happened," he reminded Peter. "We _poofed_ into another world."

"Just like you did at the church . . .  And now we're back, uninjured." He looked around. "I wonder if we're once more locked in."

As Neal started for the door, it opened on its own.

Diana and Jones entered the room. "Finally," she said, a look of relief on her face. "This was the last room we checked." She paused, her relief turning to anger. "I should cuff you and read you your rights, but beyond trespassing, I don't have anything to charge you with. I'll settle for a full explanation of what just went on."

_Are you serious?_

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: Peter and Neal won't be the only ones with revelations in next week's chapter: Stardust and Starlings. Chapter 6 will conclude The Locked Room, as Diana needs to return to her White Collar duties, but it won't be the end of the stories. I'll have news about the upcoming lineup next week._

_In this chapter Diana included many references to the house where Azathoth held Neal and Peter prisoner. They're the subject of my blog post, "Hidden Messages in the Locked Room." One of the most important messages is something that Peter inserted._

_Diana also alluded to Klaus's death at the Metropolitan Museum of Art when she had Neal fall from the dragon. Fortunately for Neal, he was in a non-Euclidean world where the rules of physics were distorted. Diana was inspired by Lovecraft's short story, "The Dreams in the Witch House," which also featured a non-Euclidean realm. The hero of that story is Walter Gilman, a student of mathematics at Miskatonic University. I'm happy to report that Peter's fate is not the same of his distant relation._

_Diana wrote about the connection between Neal and dragons in her comment. There's a pin of the creature he rode on the Arkham Files Pinterest board as well as images for the view from the tower, the illustration of Azathoth, shantaks, zoogs and moon-tree wine._

_It Takes a Thief was a popular TV show which aired 1968-1970 and featured a sophisticated thief who secured a release from prison in exchange for working for the U.S. government. It's no wonder it appealed to Mozzie._

_Thanks to my wonderful beta Penna for sacrificing part of her New Year's to spend it with me locked in a tower while shantaks circled overhead and zoogs climbed down the walls. The things I ask of her! And thanks to you for reading and commenting!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


	6. Stardust and Starlings

**Arkham Police Station. October 1, 1975. Wednesday night.**

It was a scene Neal had grown accustomed to. He and Peter were sitting across from an infuriated Diana in the interrogation room of the police station while she decided what to do with them.

"Who do you think you are? Batman and Robin? And don't you dare answer that." She crossed her arms and scowled at them for a moment. "Let me paraphrase what you just said. You claim you were trying to spare _me_ embarrassment by not notifying me before you illegally entered private property. Oh, thank you _so much_. Are you offering to explain to Captain Hughes why I allow lawbreakers to consult on our cases?" She pointed her finger warningly at them. "He's not as tolerant as I am. He doesn't have my sweet, mild-mannered disposition." She fixed her eyes on Neal. "You, I'll deal with later. First I'll try my luck with the more rational member of your gang."

The police had shown up within a few minutes of Neal and Peter being sucked through the crystal. They found two men entering the house and arrested them for trespassing, but there was no sign of the priests or the first three men there. The soapstone starfish she'd dusted for fingerprints. It was now lying on her desk in a plastic evidence bag. It was probably the only thing saving them from being locked up on general principles.

"You claim you found this in the house?"

"That's right," Peter replied smoothly. "It was in a corner of the room." Neal noticed he didn't explain which room. "We suspect it's connected with the ritual the priest was performing."

"You assert they held you prisoner, but then what happened? Don't try to tell me they simply walked off and left you there? Isn't it long overdue that you let me know what's really going on?"

That they _poofed_ into another world? Peter looked at Neal and raised an eyebrow. Neal nodded. It was time. "This may be hard to accept," Peter cautioned.

"I'm not believing you now," she retorted, "so you might as well give it a try."

Together they led her through the sequence of events. Not only in the house, but also Neal's experience at the church a couple of weeks earlier. To Diana's credit, she heard them out. She laid her sarcasm temporarily aside as she listened to the tale. They also discussed algolnium. The only parts they left out by unspoken agreement were any mention of Lavinia or the algolnium within Neal.

At the conclusion, Diana had filled out several pages of notes with her scribbles. "So, to confirm, you disappeared through the wall onto another planet with multiple moons where the laws of physics didn't work. A dragon-like creature attacked you, wounding Peter. Neal found the starfish in a corner after which tentacle-faced rodents called zoogs poured through a skylight. You fled back through the vortex, which closed shortly after you reemerged."

Neal eyed her warily. Did she actually believe them?

"You further described an earlier trip through the same sort of vortex or wormhole. That time Neal was by himself. He'd entered—illegally— the Church of St. Jude after having spotted a similar dragon circling the church steeple. In both instances a ruby crystal apparently acted as a gateway and sucked you into another reality. You now speculate the ghasts, the zoogs, the starfish, and the dragons all come from this other world."

"Or worlds," Peter corrected.

She rolled her eyes. "Thank you. That makes it so much more credible." The sarcasm was reemerging. Neal predicted any moment the volcano seething within her would erupt. "And this new element"—she glanced at her notes—"algolnium. It's somehow tied to the wormhole and space creatures invading our peaceful town."

"We believe the starfish are damaged somehow in transport through the wormhole," Neal added helpfully.

"Whereas you and Peter are miraculously healed by your journeys? Why was that again?"

Peter frowned slightly. "You know we haven't discovered the answer. The explanation may lie in that we originated on Earth whereas the starfish came from who knows where."

"I've already told you I never considered myself a fan of science fiction, but faced with disappearing starfish, a ghast I've seen with my own eyes, and the other reports coming in—"

"What other reports?" Neal demanded.

"Of weird rats or opossums," she admitted. "Jake in animal control has received several calls from citizens who claim to have seen rat-like creatures with worms on their faces. The sizes range from a rat to something about the size of a housecat. Since I've apparently become the de facto expert for anything bizarre happening in Arkham—and you know how thrilled that makes me—Jake brings me the reports. The observers only had brief glimpses. The descriptions vary and I'm sure are colored by the observers' imaginations, but they contain similarities to the zoogs you described."

"When was the earliest report?" Neal asked.

"Three weeks ago. Unfortunately, no one has obtained a photo. The sightings have all been at night under low light conditions. The observers swear they weren't drinking, but . . ." She shrugged. "How dangerous are zoogs?"

"Honestly, we don't know," Neal said. "The only information I've found is from the _Necronomicon_. The author reported they can be vicious, particularly toward cats."

"Could they have rabies?" she demanded.

"Or something worse?" Peter shrugged. "Until we catch one and examine it, I'd say all bets are off."

"How about the weasel who called me earlier this evening? He reported you two had gotten trapped inside the house. Who was he?"

"Didn't he give you his name?" Neal said, trying his best to look guileless. "We shouted to him and asked him to call you." Close enough to the truth. She'd assume they were calling out through the window, not that he'd entered the house with them. It was a deception Mozzie would approve. Neal was starting to get the hang of being a con man. And he liked the feeling. "Why didn't you ask him?"

"I did, and he refused to answer. Jones already traced the call. Public phone booth, worse luck." She turned to Peter. "The book that Neal saw the ghast carry to the house this afternoon . . . You saw it too?"

He nodded. "I believe it was the same book we later examined in the locked room."

"And the name that's on the cover, Aza . . . tom?" She glanced down at her notes.

"Azathoth," Neal corrected. "That's the name of a deity who's been associated with cult worship. The priest in the monastery at Leng said he was Azathoth's servant."

"And it's not just the name itself which is intriguing," Peter added. "There's a small symbol on the frontispiece that's identical to one of the glyphs in the starfish script. The large illustration of the writhing ball of tentacles matches descriptions of Azathoth in old texts. The book appears to be a registry of cult members."

"You're telling me we may have a cult in twentieth century Arkham that worships an ancient god?" she asked incredulously.

Peter nodded somberly. "That's exactly what we're saying, and it's no laughing matter. That same symbol was found on the armillary sphere that Neal saw in his vision. It's now in the possession of Dr. Dante Atwood. He's a professor of —"

"I've heard of him," she interrupted. "I worked on a security detail for a book signing he held. I was so impressed, I bought his book. It's called _The Brane Game_. The man's a genius at expressing complicated concepts in simple terms. He was mobbed like a rock star at the store." She paused a moment as she considered their words. "Are you consulting with Professor Atwood on these events?"

Peter nodded. "Professor Dexter, the head of the Chemistry Department at Miskatonic, is also assisting us."

She jotted down an extra note. "These references, particularly Professor Atwood, will be a help when I make my report to Captain Hughes. You speculate Azathoth may be represented by the symbol. What about the starfish carvings? Are they also meant to represent Azathoth?"

"It's certainly possible," Peter agreed.

Diana studied them for a moment. "If you hadn't entered that wormhole or whatever it was, you could have easily been killed by that gang. And, speaking as a member of the police force, that's not something I'm very happy about. Plus, for some unknown reason, I find the two of you rather likeable. So do me the courtesy of alerting me in advance the next time you set off on some harebrained scheme. You have no business dealing with the thugs that are involved in this crime spree."

Diana continued her lecture for several minutes before letting them escape. She promised to share what she learned from interrogating the suspects.

It was close to midnight by the time they'd left the police station. Neal was ready to call it a night and head home. Peter looked equally drained. As they walked down Pine Street, Neal spotted a man lurking in the shadows next to one of the houses.

"What do you see?" Peter asked in an undertone. "Another ghast? A zoog?"

Neal sighed in relief when he saw a familiar shape emerge. "False alarm." He waited for Mozzie to approach. "What are you trying to do? Give us a heart attack?"

"And why weren't you at the police station?" Peter demanded. "We had to cover for you."

"Me, at a police station?" he squeaked. "You must be suffering the after-effects of your ordeal. What happened?"

"If you'd joined us at the police station, you would have known," Peter growled. "El's expecting me. You'll have to wait till morning."

"I'll sit in a corner. You won't even know I'm there." He lifted a canvas bag he was carrying and pointed at it suggestively. "I brought liquid refreshments to loosen your tongues. I'd planned to go to Neal's but your place will do nicely."

Peter groaned. "It's late. El's probably already in bed . . ."

"Think nothing of it. We can dispense with formality and meet in your bedroom. I won't mind. I'm sparing you the bother of repeating your tale. You really should be more appreciative of my thoughtfulness."

Neal did his best to discourage Mozzie, but he'd latched onto a midnight chat like a bull terrier. Mozzie wasn't married. He considered June and Neal his family. Now, he apparently also wished to adopt Peter and El.

"Oh, very well," Peter grudgingly agreed. "But you need to stay on the stoop till I check with her. Neal can come in."

"That's okay," Neal interjected quickly. "I'll keep Mozzie company outside."

When they arrived at Peter's townhouse, Neal and Mozzie waited on the wrought-iron bench outside the front door.

"Any chance you could show me how to pick locks?" Neal asked once Peter had entered the house.

Mozzie looked at him curiously. "Why?"

"I really don't know," he admitted. "It just looked like a cool thing to be able to do."

He nodded in approval. "Good answer. And with your slim fingers, you'll have no difficulty. Our lessons will begin tomorrow. Come to my office after your classes are over for the day."

"Diana was quite complimentary to you. You should change your opinion of the police or at least make an exception for her."

"What? You told them about me?" Mozzie began scanning the bushes as if cops were lurking behind them.

"We feigned ignorance of your name, but later on we referred to you in connection with the armillary sphere. Diana served on a security detail at one of your book signings. She called you a rock star," Neal added enticingly.

"She did?" Mozzie thawed noticeably.

"Not only that. She bought a copy of your latest book and praised it. I bet she'd be thrilled if you'd autograph it for her."

The door swung open as Peter reappeared at the doorway. "You can come in. El apparently is delighted to have our home invaded."

She was standing in the hallway to greet them when they walked in, barefoot and wearing a colorful kimono. Mozzie kissed her hand. "Any more of those delicious brownies?"

She laughed. "I'll check the freezer. There may be some I could thaw."

"Oh, he won't be staying long enough," said Peter hurriedly.

"Tosh, Peter, where are your manners? For El, I'll happily stay all night."

A few minutes later, they were sitting at the dining room table. Mozzie uncorked a bottle of wine. El set out glasses and a plate of cheese and crackers. The brownies were thawing in the oven.

Peter related their experience, with Neal supplementing it at times. No secrets from El was a rule Peter had made early on, so they laid it all out. When Mozzie heard what had happened, he was inconsolable for not having been locked up with them.

"I felt like I was in a _Twilight Zone_ episode," Neal admitted, "but then I've felt like that a lot once I started having the dreams."

"Rod Serling was unusually prescient, a giant of our times," Mozzie noted. "His death earlier this year was cause for great lamentation. He would have realized that what you experienced was a journey into non-Euclidean space, a realm where our laws of physics don't apply and time itself is bent. Space is curved. Geometry is best represented by fractals." He turned to Peter. "What is your opinion of wormholes now?"

Peter hesitated. "I've made no secret of my skepticism, but in this case, a wormhole seems the only possible explanation."

Mozzie nodded his approval. "Like Sherlock, you agree that when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever's left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. There's no longer any doubt that Neal actually traveled to other worlds that night in the church. Peter has now also witnessed the Plateau of Leng. Both of you saw shantaks, a dragon, and an invasion of zoogs. To have two people experience a simultaneous hallucination of such complexity is simply not possible."

"But we're left with still more questions," El said. "Who locked you in the room? Could it have been the zoog?"

"An intriguing possibility," Mozzie said, reaching for another slice of cheese. "That hypothesis needs to be tested. Are zoogs intelligent beings? What are they capable of?"

"And was that really a dragon we saw or something else?" Peter asked. "We need to research it in the _Necronomicon_. All the other creatures have been there. Perhaps it is, too. Von Junzt didn't include an illustration of a shantak, but we may find it there as well."

Neal took out his notepad and a pencil. While the others talked, he set to work sketching the dragon and shantaks. When they were done, he passed them to Peter. "Are they how you remembered them?"

Peter nodded. "You should draw as many of the scenes as you can, particularly the view out the window and the ruby crystal. Your sketches will be the only evidence we have."

El rose to reexamine Peter's neck. "What concerns me most is that gash you had. You say it was raw and blistered, yet now there is nothing there. How can that be explained? Do you feel any discomfort?"

"No." Peter rubbed his hand over the location and shook his head. "It feels perfectly normal."

"I still want to x-ray it tomorrow."

"It's similar to the wounds Neal said he experienced when he was drawn inside the crystal at the church," Peter said. "You told us how creatures had gnawed at your flesh, but the injuries disappeared when you were ejected onto the Plateau of Leng as if you'd been miraculously healed."

Mozzie nodded complacently. "That conforms with my hypothesis that when you pass through a wormhole, a ghost image of your physical form remains behind. Upon your return, your essence reunites with this ghost image. In layman's terms you rematerialize."

Peter rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "I warned you about applying _Star Trek_ concepts to what's happening."

"I was doing you a favor by ignoring you. I predict that many of the concepts used on _Star Trek_ will become reality in our generation."

Neal pondered Mozzie's words. If he were right, a ghost image of Neal would have had to be present on the plateau. How else could he have been healed? Had Neal traveled to Leng before and now didn't remember it? He had no memory of his early childhood. Had he been at Leng? That was not something he cared to speculate about. Or was there something in the wormhole itself that had the power to heal? That sensation of being gnawed he'd felt . . . What if that wasn't a destructive force?

"Your _Star Trek_ rationale doesn't explain why Neal and Peter were able to access the wormhole in the first place," El objected. "The priest clearly felt you'd be killed when you hit the crystal."

"Like when antimatter collides with ordinary matter," Mozzie interjected.

"I suppose so," El said. "But for some reason they didn't."

"It must have either been the algolnium within Neal or the amulet which saved them."

Peter nodded. "I suspect I entered the wormhole because I was holding onto Neal. When the priest flung him into the crystal, I tried to pull him out. Instead we were both sucked in. We didn't explain the circumstances to Diana but simply said we both entered the wormhole. She knows about algolnium now. Before very long, if the element is officially recognized, the world will know as well."

"Altogether a most fascinating experiment," Mozzie said, refilling his glass with wine. "Such a shame the wormhole closed before I could examine it. I wonder where the next one will appear. As long as there are zoogs in Arkham, we know they must have a portal nearby."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Keller had parked his pickup on a side street off Birch Street where they could keep track of traffic to the house. Like Keller, Chad slouched down in the seat when the cops arrived. Keller was right to cut the ceremony short. Two squad cars arrived shortly after they left. There was no way to warn the late arrivals. Keller cursed when he saw them being led off in handcuffs. Still they'd gotten three recruits. Not bad for one night.

"How come the intruders didn't explode when they hit the crystal?" Chad asked.

"Hell if I know," Keller rasped. "Azathoth must have granted them passage. But why? I was told that the crystal could only be penetrated by those who were from the other side. Zoogs and ghasts can go back and forth but we can't."

"So the _Book of Azathoth_ is from the other side?"

He nodded. "You're my acolyte. It's time you understand more of what's happening. Our charming friends, the ghasts, bring the book with them. They need to be protected from the outside world so reside within the believers we provide. Like Rusty. You can think of him as an anointed vessel to receive a ghast. He died a martyr for the cause."

Finally. Up to now Keller had been stonewalling Chad's questions. "Why can we see ghasts and others can't?"

"It's the gift of the moon-tree wine. The zoogs make it and bring it with them from the other side."

"And those starfish the ghasts carry? What's their purpose?"

"Ghasts have many outstanding qualities, but brainpower ain't one of them. Supposedly they can only execute the simplest of commands. The writing on those rocks carries the instructions of Azathoth and allows them to execute his will."

"Where does the anointed one receive a ghast?"

"Hey, I can't share all my secrets. But you have one to spill. Why were you staring at that kid? You picked him to go first. What gives?"

"I recognized him. He was in the foster home where I grew up."

"So that's why you were disguising your voice?" Keller eyed him appraisingly. "Good thing you wore a mask. It wouldn't do for them to know who we are." Keller considered for a moment. He had an odd look on his face like he was listening to someone. "What's his name?"

"Neal Carter."

"Are you pals?"

"Me and a nerd like him? You gotta be joking."

"Too bad. We need to know more about him and the wise guy who was with him. They bear watching. We're supposed to keep a low profile but I can make an exception in their case."

"Understood. You want me to act friendly?"

"Let me check around first. I'll decide later."

Chad inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't have a clue how he could become pals with Neal. Not after the way he treated that scrawny wimp in the home. And it wasn't like they could meet in the pool hall. The kid had probably never even held a cue stick.

"Now that the cops suspect something's going on in the house, we can't use it again," Keller said. "But that's not a problem. I already have a new place chosen. The old sanitarium will be ideal. Its location is much more convenient than that dump of a house."

"How so?"

Keller smirked. "I've answered more than enough of your questions for now. But don't get me wrong, you did good. Azathoth is pleased." He reached behind the seat and pulled out a bag. "How about some of that moon-tree wine I'd promised you?"

**Miskatonic University. October 2, 1975. Thursday afternoon.**

Neal was in his office finishing up his notes for his next day's lecture when he heard a knock on his door. It was Peter, and he came bearing a gift.

He handed Neal a manila folder. "I went by to see Diana and she had the photo ready for you."

Neal had checked with Diana earlier in the day and just like all the starfish left at crime scenes, the carving had disappeared in a _poof_. "Did Cyrus call you, too?"

Peter nodded. "Any idea why he wants to see us?"

"He's playing it close to the vest. All I know is that Mozzie will also be there."

"Perhaps he's heard back about the algolnium." As they descended the stairs of Wingate Hall, Peter told him what Diana had learned from the men they'd apprehended. "They'd spun a tale of a spiritual leader who was guiding them on the path of salvation. Both men had criminal records, but they said they'd been reformed and were about to join a church. The Church of Starry Wisdom they called it."

Neal stopped dead in his tracks. "I've heard of it."

"You have? Where?"

"I'm sure I read about it in the _Necronomicon_. When we check on the dragon, I'll try to find the reference. Did Diana know anything about the group?"

"This is the first she's heard of it. Think of it. An obscure cult surviving through the centuries, worshiping Azathoth. Who knows how far back they go? Based on the signatures we saw, it may have even existed in ancient Egypt or Sumer."

When they exited the building, Neal heard his name being called out. Sara was striding across the quad. She waved them a greeting.

"I was just on my way to see you," she said when she caught up. She turned to eye Peter inquisitively, clearly in news-ferret mode. "I hear my FBF may have gotten you both in trouble again?"

"That's a new acronym. Care to translate?" Peter asked.

"Fake boyfriend. Didn't Neal explain? I offered to rescue him from the overly zealous overtures of his female students by pretending to be his girlfriend."

"Just for a few days," Neal hastened to explain.

"That's not the way I remembered it," she countered. "I believe I have a long-term contract till the real thing comes along."

Peter bit back the laugh that threatened to erupt. "Neal didn't describe it in quite those terms, but I'm glad you're willing to put up with him. We're looking forward to you joining us for the concert."

"Don't you think my FBF should explain why the two of you were taken by squad car to the police station last night?"

How had Sara found out about that? Did she have a source at the police station? No matter. She was in for a disappointment. "Sorry, FGF, not happening," Neal said as he and Peter continued to walk toward Derleth Hall.

"Oh, come on," she wheedled. "Just a little snippet? I'll never tell where I heard it."

"You're out of luck," Peter said. "Neal and I both signed confidentiality agreements. Diana would not only have our heads—she'd slap us in jail."

She sighed melodramatically. "Just my luck to fake-fall for someone with ethics."

"How's your career as bartender coming?" Neal asked, hoping to change the subject.

"The tips aren't bad." She filled them in on her undercover role. "The gang activity is on the increase in the wharf district. If I can expose who's behind it I could establish my credentials as an investigative journalist."

"I hope you're being careful," Peter commented. "That's a dangerous assignment you've chosen for yourself."

"You sound like my editor. I'll tell you what I told him. There's not much I'm scared of."

"Oh really?" Neal eyed her skeptically. "I remember an encounter with a pet tarantula."

"I'm talking humans, not spiders, Carter. Besides, who wouldn't be a little jittery at a five-inch long furry leviathan crawling up your back?'

"Two inches, tops," Neal scoffed. "Kate thought it was cute. She said you were . . . " Kate's image flashed in front of him and the words died in his throat. "Sorry," he muttered, unable to remember what he'd intended to say.

"That's your subconscious being kind and refusing to talk about spiders," Sara said, linking her arm through his. "I'm fighting two battles now—being a woman and being young. No one takes me seriously, especially my FBF."

She walked with them to the entrance to Derleth Hall before saying goodbye. "Since you insist on being so unhelpful, I'll have to go elsewhere for my news sources."

"I wonder what she'd think of ghasts?" Neal asked Peter as they jogged upstairs.

"She'd probably be unfazed." Peter shrugged. "We all have something that sets us off. For me, it's scorpions. What does it for you?"

"You mean besides Lavinia? Isn't she enough?"

They found Cyrus and Mozzie waiting for them in the chemistry lab.

"It came through this morning!" Cyrus said excitedly. "The U.S. Committee passed algolnium on to the international body with a recommendation to accept its designation as a new element." He waved the letter in front of them.

"I know of someone who'd love writing it up for the _Arkham Gazette_ ," Neal said.

Cyrus raked his hand through his hair causing it to stand on end like Einstein's. "No publicity."

"At the federal government's insistence," added Mozzie. "They want to know more about its properties first. Normally I abhor secret government maneuvers, but in this instance they may be right. We don't want to cause a panic about space aliens walking among us."

"We've already told Diana about the new element," Peter said. "Like everything else revolving around the starfish, she'll treat it as confidential."

"I assume there's no problem with that," Cyrus agreed. "I'd informed university officials and they've been in contact with the government. Despite the government's insistence, it will be hard to keep algolnium a secret." He turned to Peter. "I suspect you won't have any difficulty in obtaining a grant for another expedition to Abydos."

"The thought had already been teasing me," Peter admitted. "If I go, I'll have to persuade my algolnium-sniffer to come along."

"We'll need to go as well," Mozzie declared. "I can free my schedule at a minute's notice."

An expedition to Egypt? Explore tombs, gaze upon Pyramid Texts? If Peter could somehow secure the funding to take a linguist along, Neal was ready to start packing today.

**Outside the Miskatonic Football Stadium. October 4, 1975. Saturday evening.**

"Where's Neal?" El scanned the crowd. "He should have arrived by now. You don't think he got cold feet, do you?" The parking lot in front of the football stadium was almost filled.

"He'll be here," Peter said confidently. "Sara was probably running late."

"It's not always the woman, you know," El protested. "I don't think you appreciate what a big step this is for Neal."

"He's changing, hon." Peter said, slapping a look of regret on his face. "He's not the same deferential scholar who first approached me at the lecture podium."

"Who, Neal?" El looked incredulous. "If he is, it must be your bad influence." She gave a wave. "There they are!"

Sara like El was wearing a peasant dress and headband. Neal's jeans had holes in the knees and his tie-dyed t-shirt displayed a large peace symbol. Aside from being too clean, they would have easily fit in with the Woodstock crowd. Peter had found his old bellbottoms in a bottom drawer and had trotted out his beloved denim jacket for the occasion.

Neal introduced Sara to El and the two quickly bonded over love beads and Indian bedspread skirts. "Love your fringe vest!" Sara said to El. "Did you wear it at Woodstock?"

"No, I didn't make it to the concert but Peter was there."

"Professor Carter!" Peter turned around to see who was calling Neal. A group of female students were waving at him, urging him over.

"They're from Neal's class," Sara said. "I talked with them when I had to stand in line to see him." She gave Neal a shove. "Go ahead. I'll come over and rescue you in five minutes." She turned to Peter. "I so envy you being at Woodstock." She proceeded to ply him for details of the concert with a thoroughness that made him wonder what her intentions were. She'd promised it was off the record, but would this come back to haunt him?

 Seizing an opportunity to change the subject, he asked, "Don't you need to go rescue your FBF?" Neal was by now surrounded by ten women and had been casting frantic glances over in their direction for the past couple of minutes.

Peter watched as Sara strolled over and put an arm around Neal. "She's just what he needs. Someone safe."

El shrugged. "I don't know how safe she is, but you're right he needs her."

Sara must have filled Neal in on what she'd gleaned from Peter on the way back because Neal was full of questions. "Do you have any photos of the hippie anthropologist you were dating?" he asked.

"We weren't actually dating," Peter protested. "Our interest in the concert was purely to conduct scientific research."

"A likely story," El scoffed. "I demand to see photos."

Peter crossed his arms. "Those babies are locked away in a vault so secure no one will ever find them."

El winked at Neal. "That sounds like a challenge to me. Next time he's away on a field trip, Sara, you must join Neal and me. You can put your investigative skills to good use as we turn the townhouse upside down."

"Fat lot of good it will do you, " he scoffed. "A word to the wise: you don't want to broadcast your future heist to your mark."

"All part of our devious plan," Neal said, "to lull you into a false sense of security. Those photos will be found."

The concert was as glorious as they'd expected. Afterward no one was ready to go home. Instead they headed to Dorian's Coffeehouse for drinks. As they walked over, Sara attempted to sing "Woodstock." What she lacked in musicality she made up for in enthusiasm. Peter suspected she was deliberately misquoting the lyrics to get a rise out of Neal.

"It's _stardust_ , not starlings," Neal complained for what must have been the fourth time. "Crosby, Stills, and Nash were singing we're all made of _stardust_ , not starlings."

"You sure about that?" she challenged. "I have excellent hearing and I'm positive they sang about starlings. Peter, what's your opinion?"

"You may be made of starlings, but the rest of us are stardust, right Neal?"

Neal grinned back at him. "You'll get no arguments from me."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Dorian's was almost as packed as the concert had been. "How did Sara manage to wrangle us a table?" Peter asked.

"She sweet-talked a couple to share a table with another two others." El smiled as she watched Sara place their order at the bar. "She spun a long yarn about it being our anniversary and that she was trying to get Neal to propose. It's a good thing he didn't overhear her."

"That would have killed her chances for ever going on a fake date again." The would-be fiancé was standing in the corner talking with the owner, Jack Dorian. Neal had mentioned he was a friend as well as a fellow artist. Jack appeared to be about Peter's age.

Sara insisted on buying the first round, claiming she needed to practice serving drinks for her undercover work. A few minutes later she came back with a tray of drinks—wine for El and Neal, beer for Peter and herself.

"A fellow beer-drinker," Peter said, raising his glass to her. "You've risen in my esteem."

"Actually I prefer a martini," she admitted, "but they don't have a license to sell hard liquor."

Neal slid into a chair. "Starting without me?"

Sara passed him his glass. "Jack had you buttonholed for quite a while. What did he want?"

"He'd lined up some musicians for tonight, but a couple canceled. He was trying to convince me to fill in." Neal shook his head firmly. "Not happening."

Sara made a face. "You big wus. I'd sing. Jack should have asked me."

Neal snorted. "You'd sing about starlings and drive all the customers away."

"Okay, so I may not know the lyrics, but—"

"—and you can't sing in tune."

"Yeah, there's that, but it's so noisy, no one will hear me anyway." She pretended to pout. "Some fake date you make. Who'll ever believe us, if you don't grant me this one tiny request? Besides, I bet El and Peter have never heard you sing." She turned to them. "Wouldn't you like to hear him?"

"I'd love it," El agreed. She sighed dramatically. "It's all I need to make my evening complete."

"And mine," Peter added, "but Neal told me once he only sang after a sufficient amount of wine. I estimate two glasses will be adequate."

After a combination of wine and much cajoling, Neal agreed to take the stage. Jack supplied him with a guitar. Neal must have sung here frequently despite his disclaimer since many knew him and were yelling songs for him to sing. "Fire and Rain" by James Taylor seemed the most popular.

"They'll never get him to sing that," Sara whispered to them. "It was Kate's favorite song. He told me he couldn't get through it now."

"How about something from the concert?" someone called out.

"Are you crazy?" he said, wide-eyed, "After hearing them perform?"

"Make a ballad out of it!" Sara shouted over the din. "For me, sweetie?" 

Peter had to give Sara credit. She knew how to provoke him just enough to have her way. Peter predicted a brilliant success for her as a journalist.

Neal sang "A Long Time Gone" and the crowd loved it. Peter agreed but in light of the events of the past week, wished he'd chosen something more cheerful.

When Neal got up to leave, he was shouted down for an encore. "I'll need some help for this one," he said, scanning the audience. "Any volunteers?"

A few hands went up, but Neal ignored them. "Is that Peter Gilman over there?" he said with a devilish grin. "Yes, I believe it is. Wouldn't you like to hear him?"

El and Sara, laughing, shoved Peter toward the front where Neal could appreciate the full effect of his glare.

"What's the matter, wus?" Neal asked innocently. "You'll like this, I promise." He started strumming and when Peter recognized the tune he smiled his approval. Together they put on an unforgettable performance of Joe Cocker's version of "A Little Help from My Friends." Perhaps it was just the beer, but Peter felt a strong urge to let his sideburns grow long again.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

On Sunday afternoon Neal arrived at the Faculty Club to find the others already present. They'd settled on meeting on Sundays since it was the only day they could guarantee everyone's schedule was free. El was now a regular member of what Mozzie liked to call the Algolnium Web. He claimed he'd coined the name by linking the element to his theory on the cosmic web, but Neal suspected his inspiration had actually been _Star Trek's_ Tholian Web.

"The beast that attacked us was a nightgaunt," Peter reported. "We found its picture in _The Necronomicon_. The author, Abdul Alhazred, mentioned he'd seen them flying in the night sky over his hometown of Sana'a, Yemen. He encountered one perched on the roof of an abandoned mosque. The beast Alhazred depicted is similar to a dragon with bat-like wings and a long barbed tail."

"Alhazred wrote that nightgaunts differ from dragons in that their skin is smooth and without scales," Neal added. "That tallies with our observations. Nightgaunts are incapable of producing fire. Their barbed tails are poisonous and can inflect painful wounds, as Peter can attest."

Mozzie rotated his glass of wine in his hands. "You've seen nightgaunts at the church and in that non-Euclidean tower chamber. In both cases the ruby crystal was present. It's tempting to hypothesize a connection."

"Gems and dragons . . ." El mused, turning to Peter. "Isn't there a Chinese myth concerning that?"

He nodded. "The flaming pearl. In fact, Chinese dragons are often depicted holding a fiery pearl in their claws or under their chins." 

"You mentioned that several of the pages in the book were written in Chinese," El said. "I've been a skeptic as you know, but now with both Neal and Peter having traveled through an apparent wormhole and witnessed this creature on the other side, it doesn't seem out of the realm of possibility to believe that nightgaunts can enter our reality through another portal. Could the source of Chinese dragon myths be nightgaunts?"

"And not just the Chinese myths," Peter pointed out. "Legends about dragons exist in many ancient cultures—Greece, India, Mesopotamia."

"If we assume the ruby crystal acts as a gateway to a wormhole," El said, "the nightgaunts may provide the transport mechanism to deliver the crystal."

Mozzie nodded agreement. "The ruby crystal could be an alien construct which generates a temporary wormhole. That doesn't preclude the existence of more stable wormholes. But focusing for the moment on the transitory ones Neal and Peter experienced, I doubt a mobile device would be able to generate a wormhole for very long. You two were fortunate yours stayed stable long enough for you to escape. I suspect if you'd dallied on the other side, you would have been permanently trapped."

Cyrus had been listening in silence while he gazed with unfocused eyes through the window. Turning back to the others, he said, "If we postulate Neal has been able to enter wormholes because of the algolnium contained within him, don't we need to consider the possibility that Peter also has algolnium?" He turned to El. "Have you tested him?"

Peter and El exchanged startled looks. "I haven't," she acknowledged, "but I should. Tomorrow morning I'll perform a spinal tap."

"And me too?" Mozzie interjected. "Please? My body is yours to conduct whatever experiments you'd like."

"We should all be tested," El asserted. "I'll have a technician perform the surgery on me. Cyrus, are you free Monday morning?"

While they compared schedules, Neal pondered the possibility that his friends could also possess algolnium. Had he infected them? Could it be transmitted through the skin? Was he a walking plague?

Peter broke into his thoughts. "We've agreed that Abdul Alhazred could have had algolnium within him which enabled him to see these creatures from another universe. But if nightgaunts are the inspiration for dragons, many others must have been able to see them as well."

"I've been wondering about that, too," El admitted. "If we accept algolnium formerly was much more abundant, the percentage of the population who carried it within them could have also been much higher. What do you think, Cyrus?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes, a natural attrition of the element could have taken place. As people died, algolnium may have seeped into the earth. It could mask its appearance, making it very difficult to detect."

"The ancient myths of monsters and demons we've dismissed as mere superstitions, but at least some of them may have had a basis in creatures from this parallel universe," Neal said.

"We should call it the A-Brane," Mozzie declared.

" _A_ for algolnium?" Peter asked.

He shrugged, " _A_ can stand for many things. Algolnium, Alhazred, Algol, Alpha, Azathoth. This brane is the first parallel world we've detected. The letter _A_ is fitting."

"Does the _Necronomicon_ mention anything about the _Book of Azathoth_?" Cyrus asked.

Neal nodded. "It was used by the Church of Starry Wisdom. Members wrote secret names for themselves in blood."

"It's a shame it's disappeared," Mozzie said. "I suspect it's reentered the A-Brane."

Neal glanced out the bay window. The campus looked peaceful. But at night were ghasts stalking the streets throughout the world? Were nightgaunts patrolling the skies? If nightgaunts, ghasts, and zoogs managed to exist in their reality, was Azathoth out there too?

And what was the connection between the priest in the yellow silk mask and Azathoth? The one in the locked room had been a cheap imitation of the priest Neal met on the Plateau of Leng. That priest had said he served only Azathoth. How long would he wait to make a return?

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

A little over a week ago, Neal had been invited to the Gilmans to discuss his test results. Little had he realized he'd be returning so soon to review yet more tests, but this time the patient was Peter.

El had called Neal at the end of the day on Monday to extend the invitation. She didn't give any hint as to what the results were but suggested Peter and Neal pick up Chinese takeout at the Jade Dragon on the way home. Was that a signal? Peter and Neal joked about the implications on the way over. If she'd wanted them to be nervous about what was to come, she'd succeeded.

"I didn't give you enough credit for the strain you were under," Peter said ruefully. "You've had to endure weeks of tests. After one day, I'm ready to call it quits."

"Perhaps El included me to help celebrate that she discovered no anomalies," Neal suggested, trying to put a positive spin on it. From Peter's expression he didn't believe it, and neither did Neal.

They were now sitting in their living room. Peter had opened up the bar. He raised his glass to El. "The advantages of having your wife be your doctor . . . How many beers should I have before I hear my fate?"

El smiled and hesitated. "You may want to save them for afterward." She was sitting next to Peter on the couch. Neal tried to project reassurance as he perched on the edge of his chair. Had Peter felt this tense when El told Neal the news last week? Even Satchmo looked anxious.

"Then we shouldn't delay," Peter declared. "Tell me straight."

"This is as direct as I can make it. We detected a small amount of algolnium within your spinal fluid." She looked anxiously at him to judge his reaction.

Peter rubbed the side of his face. "I knew it was a possibility, but since the soapstone artifact doesn't have any effect on me, I expected the results would most likely be negative."

"The amount you have is much less—roughly one thousandth of what's present in Neal's system. Mozzie doesn't have any, he'll be sad to hear. Nor do I or Cyrus."

"You're sure of the results, I assume?"

She nodded. "Cyrus has been working on a method to make algolnium easier to detect. He discovered that by adding a reagent—in this case an organosulfur compound— to a liquid, any algolnium present hardens into solid crystals which can then be measured and analyzed." She turned to Neal. "It's thanks to your willingness to be tested that we could make the breakthrough. Now that we have a simple way to analyze fluids, the work is going much faster."

_Peter has algolnium_. The words played in an endless loop in Neal's head. El was discussing her favorite hypothesis for the cause—leftover trace amounts of a rare mineral deposit. But all Neal could think of was that Peter had the same mysterious element as Neal.

"I'd be more upset about this except that I've spent the past week lecturing Neal on why he should take it in stride," Peter admitted. "I can hardly freak out now."

Neal relaxed at his words. "You realize how envious Mozzie will be, don't you?"

Peter smiled. "That's one of the many possible benefits I see from this. And you know how I like cold weather. Now frostbite won't be an issue."

El's expression lightened as well when she saw Peter's reaction to the news. "Mozzie and I will have to comfort each other over being left out."

"I appreciate no one's called me Starman yet."

Neal raised his glass to him. "That privilege belongs to me. Peter Gilman, Starman, has a nice ring to it. We've visited other worlds. You're Earth's first space archaeologist."

"Careful. If you grin any wider, your face will split. I don't know if algolnium will fix that."

"It's possible you and Neal are related," El said. "As yet we don't know if algolnium can be inherited. That's why I'd like to request your parents also have spinal taps."

"We don't want to alarm them," Peter cautioned.

"I can ask if they'd like to participate in a study of heredity. That shouldn't cause any distress."

"The fact that Neal has so much more than I do may account for his sensitivity to algolnium and his heightened ability to see ghasts."

She nodded. "Cyrus is conducting tests to see if there's any difference on the molecular level of the algolnium in your two systems."

"You mentioned you had another idea on why Peter has algolnium?" Neal prompted.

"That's right. Since it's such a small amount, I wondered if it could have been obtained through some external mechanism. Lavinia told Peter that the two of you were intertwined but she gave no specifics. Was this what she meant and how much does she know about algolnium?"

"I've talked to her about algolnium," Neal said. "I asked if either of my parents was extraterrestrial, and she wouldn't answer."

El winced. "I wish I could test Lavinia."

"Neal and I will make a joint assault on her and see if the team approach doesn't achieve better results."

When they moved into the kitchen to dish out the food, Neal pulled Peter aside. "You seem very relaxed about this. Are you really?"

He nodded. "I am. This result doesn't explain the mystery over algolnium and the experiences we've had. But it may help to solve another one. I knew we had a bond. We may not be related by blood, but algolnium will do just as well."

 

* * *

**_Notes_ ** _: DNA profiling was unavailable in 1975 and could not be used to determine a blood relationship between Neal and Peter. In the next Arkham Files story, The Crypt, more will be revealed about their connection, as a dark secret buried underneath Arkham sets them on a new course. There will also be more about ruby crystals, moon-tree wine, and zoogs. Keller and Chad will also be back._

_But first Neal and Peter take that long anticipated trip to London and Paris in Echoes of a Violin. The first chapter of that story will be posted on January 25. El and Mozzie will also be along, and Henry drops in as well. Unfortunately Azathoth views those two cities as his playground. His traps have been long in the making and are ready to be sprung._

_A few notes about the team's suggestions for this chapter: Mozzie insisted that his counterpart not suffer from lactose intolerance so he can enjoy cheese. He also had Diana include one of his favorite quotes from Sherlock Holmes. Mozzie was in advance of his time when he mentioned the cosmic web. The term was coined in 1996 by Richard Bond and others to describe the large-scale structure of the universe. Mozzie claims the scientists copied the idea from that famous Arkham astrophysicist Dante Atwood. Diana felt an explanation was necessary for her counterpart's attitude toward Mozzie in this chapter and has written a comment._

_Neal and Peter were both plying Diana with demands for the coffeehouse scene. Neal agreed to sing one of Peter's favorite Crosby, Stills, and Nash songs in exchange for Peter performing as well. "With a Little Help from My Friends" was the song Peter said he liked to sing in the first Arkham Files story. Joe Cocker made air guitar famous at Woodstock when he performed this song. The video is pinned to the Arkham Files Pinterest board. Peter Burke grew up listening to Woodstock music, which his brother Joe used to blast throughout the house. The Woodstock references are for Joe. He was fifteen when Woodstock was held and his parents refused to let him attend. Peter lived the dream for him._

_You can find news and summaries for all of our stories on our blog. I've also added an Arkham Files Bestiary for reference to the weird creatures which have made an appearance in the first two stories._

_Thanks to my awesome beta and co-conspirator Penna Nomen. Posting this story while she visited Arkham in A Caffrey Christmas Carol made this an unforgettable experience for me._

_Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed your stay in Arkham. Till next time!_

**_Blog_ ** _: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: _ [ _www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com_ ](http://www.pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com) _  
_ **_Chapter Visuals and Music_ ** _: The Arkham Files board at the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website:_ [ _www.pinterest.com/caffreycon_ ](http://www.pinterest.com/caffreycon)


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